Page 101 of Hollow

“Tonight,” I say, the word both question and command.

Damiano brushes his lips against my temple, warm and certain. “Tonight.”

The island fog presses against the windows, surrounding Windward Estate like a protective blanket. Outside, the maze waits, its secrets multiplying with each passing day. But tonight, itwill hold one more—not a tragedy this time, but something wilder, darker, and infinitely more alive.

Tonight, I will be the prey. And for once, I can’t wait to be caught.

Chapter 32

Briar

The red bulb casts bloody light across the porch where I stand. My white nightgown flutters around my bare legs, practically translucent in the moonlight. The fabric feels both foreign and familiar against my skin—the same style as the night everything changed, but not the same gown. That one burned in the fire pit behind the greenhouse, along with other evidence.

I curl my toes against the cold wooden boards, remembering the rules of The Hunt. Barefoot. Dressed in white. Prey waiting for predators.

The night wraps around Windward Estate like a cloak, fog curling between trees and slithering across the lawn. Perfect hunting weather. I breathe it in, tasting salt and pine and anticipation.

They’re out there somewhere. Watching. Waiting.

A breeze lifts my hair, sending dark strandsdancing across my face. I push them back, scanning the darkness for any sign of movement. Nothing yet. Just shadows and silence.

Then I hear it.

The whistle.

Three notes carried on the wind, rising in pitch then falling. The signal. My pulse kicks up instantly, adrenaline flooding my system.

It comes again, closer this time. Not from the direction I expected—not from the forest, but from somewhere to the left, near the hedge maze.

I step off the porch, my bare feet sinking into dew-damp grass. The night air brushes against my skin, raising goosebumps across my arms, my legs, my neck. I pause, listening.

The whistle comes again. From a different direction.

They’ve split up.

Two hunters, one prey.

A laugh escapes me, something wild and unfamiliar. This is what I wanted. To be hunted by men who want to catch me, not kill me. Men who’ve seen the darkest parts of me and stayed anyway.

I run.

Not toward the maze—that would be too obvious. Instead, I head for the gardens, darting between sculpted hedges and stone pathways. The dewy grass muffles my footsteps, and the fog swallows my white-clad figure almostimmediately.

Behind me, the whistle comes again. Closer. They’re tracking me.

Good.

My lungs burn already, my body’s weakness making itself known, but I push through it. Tonight isn’t about limitations; it’s about freedom, about choosing what scares you instead of letting it choose you.

I cut through the rose garden, wincing as thorns snag my nightgown, scratch my legs. Small sacrifices. The path curves ahead, leading toward a decorative fountain. The moonlight catches on the water, creating ghostly patterns that dance and swirl.

I stop, listening again. Nothing. The whistles have gone quiet, which means they’re close enough that sound would betray their positions.

My heartbeat seems too loud, my breathing too harsh. I glance around, trying to spot movement in the darkness. The statues scattered throughout the garden look too much like men in the fog, making me jump at shadows.

“Fuck,” I whisper as my toe catches on an uneven stone, sending pain shooting up my foot.

That’s when I see him.

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