Page 47 of Hollow

I watch her hands trace the tattoos on his chest, following the patterns I know by heart. His breathing gets faster, shallower. She leans down to kiss him, her hair creating a curtain around their faces.

When she sits back up, Damiano’s eyes shift and lock directly with mine through the glass.

No surprise. No guilt. Just that dark, knowing look that’s always been able to cut right through me. He holds my gaze while he continues to guide her movements, his expression challenging yet inviting all at once.

Ten seconds pass. Maybe fifteen. Neither of us looks away.

Then Briar notices. Her rhythm falters as she follows his line of sight and sees me standing there in the darkness. Instead of the shock or embarrassment I expect, her expression shifts to something more curious. She doesn’t stop moving.

Damiano whispers in her ear, and she nods, her eyes still on me, and she turns slightly to give me a better view of them both. Her naked body is all pale curves in the amber greenhouse light with delicate collarbones, small tits with pink nipples hardened from arousal, the gentle slope of her stomach… Despite her illness, there’s an unexpected strength to her frame.

There’s nothing fragile about the way she controls her movements.

The contrast of her fair skin against Damiano’s darker complexion and intricate tattoos—almost like the good meets evil—sends a surge of heat through me. I clench my jaw, trying to keep my expression neutral.

She reaches back to brace against his thigh as she arches her back more, making a deliberate show of it. The curve of her spine, the way her dark hair cascades down her back almost to her waist makes it impossible not to stare. My mouth goes dry. I’ve seen plenty at The Vault, but this is different. This is Damiano with Waters’ daughter, two people who shouldn’t make sense together but somehow do.

Damiano’s eyes stay locked with mine as he guides her hips, slowing their pace like they’ve got all night now. He slides one of his hands up her side to cup her breast, circling his thumb around the nipple in a way I recognize from experience. My body responds right away, a rush of blood southward that leaves me light-headed for a second.

It’s a performance meant for me—an invitation or a challenge, and with Damiano, those are usually the same thing. I should walk away, but my feet stay planted. Watching them through the fogged glass feels like something from our past, when boundaries between us were merely suggestions.

The corner of Damiano’s mouth lifts in that half-smile I know too well. He says something else to Briar, and she reaches up, gathering her hair and pulling it to one side, exposing the curve of her neck where his mouth now travels. Her eyes flutter closed, but she turns her face toward the window. Toward me.

This is seriously fucked up.

We’ve got a body in the ground not fifty yards from here, search parties combing the island, and they’re putting on a fuck show like we’re at The Vault on a Saturday night.

Screw it.

I move to the door and let myself in. The air inside hits me immediately humid, warm, smelling like sex and plants.

“You’re early,” Damiano says. They’ve stopped, but they haven’t separated or covered up. Briar’s still straddling him, her back to me, her skin flushed with color.

“Shift ended.” I clear my throat. “Figured the news couldn’t wait.”

Briar quickly pulls a blanket around herself, color flooding her cheeks as the moment breaks. Damiano seems less concerned, but he reaches for his jeans on the floor beside the cot.

“Must be important,” Damiano says.

“Viktor’s called in reinforcements. They’ll be here by morning.” I move deeper into the greenhouse, keeping my eyes on my backpack as I set it on theworkbench. “Also, you should cover these windows better. Half the search parties on the island could see what you’re doing in here.”

Damiano’s lips twitch, almost a smile as he stands. “Yet you’re the only one who showed up.”

“That won’t last.” I turn my back, giving them a moment to get dressed. “We need to talk.”

I busy myself checking the window for any movement outside while they finish getting themselves together. No awkward apologies or embarrassed fumbling. Just the rustle of clothing and quiet murmurs. When I turn back, Briar’s wearing one of Damiano’s flannels and a pair of leggings. Damiano’s pulled on jeans but hasn’t bothered with a shirt.

“What kind of reinforcements?” he asks, pouring water from a jug into the ancient kettle he keeps for tea.

“The kind with military training and tracking dogs.” I drop onto the only chair in the place. “Viktor’s not fucking around. Twenty thousand dollar reward now, and he’s calling in people who make a living finding things that don’t want to be found.”

Briar sits on the edge of the cot, tucking her legs underneath her. “Dogs can’t track through the maze. Too many competing scents from the plants.”

Damiano and I both look at her.

“What?” she says. “My dad hunts. I know how tracking dogs work.”

“She’s not wrong,” Damiano says, lighting the small camping stove. “The maze has too many overwhelming plant oils. Confusion scents. Poisonous plants for dogs that they’ll stay away from.”

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