Page 26 of Hollow

Damiano nods. “I should get back after I clean up. Make sure everything at the estate is secure.”

“You can stay,” I offer, surprising myself. “The couch is comfortable enough.” I nod toward Briar. “She shouldn’t be alone tonight anyway.”

“I can make my own decisions,” Briar says with strength. She sits up straighter, pulling the blanket around her shoulders like armor. “And I’d prefer you both stay. I get a say in this.”

She flicks her gaze between us, the shock from earlier replaced by something steadier, more resolute. The fragile girl I carried through the forest is finding her backbone again, piece by piece.

“Of course.” Damiano’s words are gentler than I’ve heard in years. It’s his tone with her. Soft. Different than how he’s ever spoken to me. “Whatever you want.”

“What I want is for us to figure out what happens next,” she says. “And not to be alone with... with what I did.”

“Fair enough,” I say. “Briar, you take the bed. Damiano, you’ve got the couch.”

I glance toward my bed—a simple platform frame with a decent mattress pushed against the far wall of the container. It looks suddenly small and exposed in the open-plan space.

Damiano starts to argue, but I hold up a hand. “This isn’t a debate. I’ve slept in worse places than my own floor.” To emphasize the point, I grab the sleeping bag from the storage trunk at the foot of my bed and unroll it near the wood stove.

Briar looks like she might protest, too, but fatigue wins out. She nods weakly and moves toward the bed, sinking onto the edge of the mattress.

“There’s extra blankets in that trunk,” I tell Damiano, pointing. “Help yourself.”

He nods, his expression softening for a moment. “Thank you.”

“Yeah, well.” I shrug, uncomfortable with the gratitude. “Just don’t hog all the blankets.”

That gets me a small smile from Briar, which feels like a victory.

I pour the rest of the hot water from the kettle into a mug and hand it to Briar.

“For the herbs,” I explain. “Something tells me you don’t swallow them dry.”

She adds the powder from Damiano’s paper package to the tea. The earthy smell fills the small space.

“Drink it all,” Damiano tells her. “It will help with the pain and help you sleep.”

She does, grimacing slightly at the taste but finishing it anyway. Within minutes, her eyelids are drooping where she sits on the edge of the bed. She’s barely conscious as she curls onto her side, pulling the comforter around her.

Chapter 9

Flint

I watch Briar fall asleep, her breathing getting deeper as Damiano’s herbs kick in. For the first time since we found her in the maze, she looks almost peaceful. The bruises on her neck stand out against her pale skin, a fucked-up reminder of how close this night came to ending way worse.

“She’ll sleep through till morning,” Damiano says quietly. “Maybe longer.”

He heads to the bathroom with the clothes I left out for him. When the door closes, I exhale slowly and roll my shoulders.

I add more wood to the stove and adjust the damper to keep it burning slowly all night. Outside, the fog’s pressed up against the windows like it’s trying to get in. All I can hear is the waves crashing against the cliffs below.

When Damiano emerges from the bathroom, I almost drop the mug I’m washing. He’s only wearingthe gray sweatpants I gave him, hanging low on his hips. No shirt. His hair’s loose and wet, dripping down onto his shoulders and chest.

I forget sometimes how much ink he’s got. The tattoos I saw earlier when his sleeves were rolled up are nothing compared to the full canvas. His entire upper body’s covered in black botanical designs with bits of dark green and purple mixed in.

A huge nightshade plant stretches from his right shoulder blade around to his collarbone. The berries are done in a deep purple that looks almost black in the dim light. Vines wrap around his ribs, and old symbols—Norse and Celtic stuff—cover his chest and upper arms. I used to know the story behind every one, used to trace them with my fingers. My tongue.

But it’s not only the tattoos that get me. It’s everything else, too. The lean muscle from years of digging and hauling shit around gardens. His right side’s always been a bit bigger than his left from all the one-sided work. The scars that criss-cross his forearms—some from thorns and tools, others from fights I remember all too well.

I look away and focus on drying the mugs. “There’s coffee for tomorrow,” I say, for the sake of saying something. “And bread if you’re hungry now.”

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