Page 13 of Hollow

Instead of pulling away, he smiles. “There’s the real Damiano. Wondered how long it’d take to crack that Zen plant-whisperer bullshit.”

“It’s not bullshit.”

“It’s all bullshit.” He brings his hands up to grip my wrists, not to remove them but to hold me there. “Just like my cool bartender act. We’re both fake as hell. Difference is, I own it.”

Rage surges through me, familiar and almost welcome. “I’m not doing this again.”

“Doing what? This?” He moves quickly, pressing his body against mine, his mouth hovering just shy of contact. “Or this?” He slides around one hand to grip the back of my neck, fingers tangling in my hair.

I should shove him away. Walk out of this maze, back to people who aren’t toxic waste in human form. Instead, I tighten my grip on his shirt until I hear threads tear.

“I fucking hate you.” The lie is bitter on my tongue.

His smile turns nasty. “Yeah, you said that last night, too. Right before you were on your knees begging for it.”

The memory hits like a physical blow—the storage room at The Vault, bottles of expensiveliquor surrounding us, the taste of him, his hands in my hair. The addiction I can’t kick.

“Go to hell,” I mutter, but we both know I’m losing this fight with myself.

“Only if you’re coming with me.” He pulls me closer, his breath hot against my face.

I release his shirt and step back. “This is a mistake.”

“Probably. Not like we’re strangers to bad decisions.”

“This needs to stop,” I say, betrayed by my own hands as I grab his waist.

“It will.” He traces the line of my jaw with his fingers. “Tomorrow, or the next day, when one of us says something unforgivable again. But tonight we’ll pretend we don’t hate each other.”

The inevitable truth of it crashes over me. We’re trapped in this loop, knowing exactly how much damage we do to each other but unable to break free.

“I should be keeping an eye on the party,” I say, a pathetic last stand.

Flint laughs, his mouth hovering near mine. “Always Mr. Responsible. Princess Waters will survive without her guard dog for an hour. Those security meatheads are good for something, at least.”

Somewhere in the distance, music from the party carries through the fog, reminding me I have actual responsibilities. But as Flint moves his hands with that infuriating familiarity over my body, those concerns fade like they never mattered.Nothing matters but this destructive attraction between us.

Tomorrow, I’ll hate myself for this. Tomorrow, I’ll remember all the reasons we’re fucking poison. But tonight, in the center of the maze where no one can find us unless they know the way, none of that matters.

Tonight, we’ll pretend this sickness is something worth keeping, something worth the inevitable bloodshed that follows. And tomorrow, when the fog lifts, we’ll go back to pretending we’re strangers who just happen to share an island and too many secrets.

It’s a sick pattern, predictable as the maze itself. Every turn leads back to the same center, no matter how hard I try to find another way out.

I fucking hate that he’s here in my space, acting like he owns it. It’s always like this with Flint, invading places that don’t belong to him, including the parts of me I try to keep locked away.

I slap away his hand hard enough to leave a mark. Anger flashes on his face but morphs into something worse, something hungry that drags me in even as I fight it.

“You think you can show up, and I’ll just roll over for you?”

“Yes,” he says. Zero hesitation. Zero doubt.

I want to break his jaw for that certainty, for how he never backs down. I want to break it even more because he’s right. The air between us crackles with violence and want, and it is dragging me toward him.

He reaches for me again, and this time I don’t stop him. He grips my arm, fingers digging in hard enough to bruise. It’s like a spark hitting gasoline, and we’re on each other, all violence and teeth and ragged breath.

I slam him against the hedge wall, branches scratching my skin and catching in my clothes. He laughs, that rough sound that makes me want to hurt him. It’s a fight and a dance, and neither of us knows the steps. Or maybe we know them too well to admit it.

His mouth finds mine, hard and demanding, and I bite his lip until I taste copper. He doesn’t pull away, just presses closer, like he’s trying to crawl inside me and tear me apart from within. His hands are everywhere, tearing at my clothes, and I don’t stop him.

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