Total pages in book: 85
Estimated words: 81887 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 409(@200wpm)___ 328(@250wpm)___ 273(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 81887 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 409(@200wpm)___ 328(@250wpm)___ 273(@300wpm)
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 wearing the 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.”
“I’m fine.” His voice is rough, like he needs sleep. “Got anything stronger than tea?”
I grab the whiskey bottle from the cabinet and pour him a glass. “Here.”
He takes it, our fingers brushing for a second. That old familiar jolt. He downs it in one go, grimacing as it hits.
“Liam Bastian going missing is gonna be a problem.” He puts down the glass. “A big fucking problem.”
“No shit.” I pour myself a drink, too. My nerves need it. “Viktor’s gonna tear this island apart looking for his brother.”
“And when he doesn’t find him?” Damiano’s eyes look almost black with worry. “We’re fucked, Flint. All of us.”
“We stick to the story, and we’ll be fine.” I lean against the counter, trying to look more chill about this than I feel. “Liam got wasted at the party, hit on some chicks, then bounced. Nobody knows where he went. End of story.”
“Viktor won’t buy that. He knows his brother too well.”
“That’s exactly why it works.” I take a swig of whiskey, letting it burn all the way down. “Everyone knows Liam’s a creep who preys on women. Him disappearing after a party full of drunk girls? Makes perfect sense. Maybe he found some tourist to harass. Maybe he fell off the dock. Maybe he’s sleeping it off in someone’s bed.”
Damiano runs his hand through his wet hair and pushes it back from his face. I catch sight of that constellation tattoo on his wrist—tiny dots that map out the stars from the night we first met. I watched him get that one.
“Viktor has connections with the worst people on this island,” he says, pacing around my small space. “The kind that make prison look like a fucking vacation. If he even thinks for a second we had something to do with his brother going missing...”
“He doesn’t know about Briar,” I point out. “He’s got no reason to connect her to any of this.”
“Unless someone saw her leave the party. Or saw us in the maze.” He stops pacing and looks right at me. “We weren’t exactly being discreet before all this went down.”
My face heats up remembering Damiano pinning me against the hedge wall, his hand over my mouth to keep me quiet, his body hard against mine. That mix of anger and want that’s always been our thing.
“Nobody saw us,” I say, more confident than I actually am. “And even if they did, so what? Us hooking up in the maze isn’t exactly breaking news on this island.”
“It connects us to where his brother disappeared,” Damiano says, clearly frustrated. “Use your fucking head, Flint.”
“I am using my head,” I snap back. “And I’m saying we stick to the story. Liam left the party. Nobody knows where he went. Period.”