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)
“I told you. No way. I actually prefer this,” I admit. “Shh... don’t tell anyone.”
The crowds are behind us, past the broken walls and hanging vines, just a low hum of energy. We stand in a clearing, surrounded by ancient headstones and marble angels with their faces turned down.
This is what I wanted. This is what I want. I don’t know how long it will last, but I don’t care. We have this moment—together—and it’s everything.
“It’s peaceful,” I say, listening to the distant cries of gulls on the wind.
Flint leans against the black bark of an oak tree, surveying the headstones like he can’t get enough of them.
Damiano sits on a low stone bench, kicking at the loose gravel near his feet. Flint joins him, and they watch me, the two of them side by side in the filtered afternoon light. It makes me smile.
“I can’t believe this is what it took to get the two of you relaxing,” I tease, sitting on the ground now, at their feet.
Flint strokes the back of my neck with a callused thumb, and Damiano looks at him, then at me, something genuine and vulnerable, something right.
“Guess we’re not very good at it,” Damiano admits, and I wonder if he’s talking about relaxing or if it’s something else.
“We’re good at this.” Flint’s words are quiet, and he takes my hand first, then Damiano’s, the three of us linking together.
What will the tourists say if they see us here, like this?
At the mouth of hell, three sinners.
I want to know what happens next, how we end.
It doesn’t really matter.
Like I said, this is what I want.
“You’re cold again,” Damiano says, breaking the comfortable silence. He shrugs off his jacket and places it around my shoulders without waiting for my response.
“Thanks.” I pull it closer, breathing in his scent—earth and herbs and something uniquely him.
Flint produces a small flask from his pocket. “This will warm you up better.”
“Let me guess—the good stuff from behind the bar at The Vault?” I ask, accepting it.
“Only the best for you, princess.” There’s no bite to the nickname anymore, only a gentle teasing that makes me smile.
I take a small sip, the whiskey burning pleasantly down my throat. “Definitely better than the lemonade.”
Flint’s laughter is lighter than I’ve ever heard from him. “Don’t tell the tourist trap vendor. He’s charging five bucks for that sugar water.”
Damiano’s fingers find mine, tracing patterns on my palm. “This is the oldest cemetery on the island. Some of these graves date back to the 1700s.”
“History nerd.” Flint bumps Damiano’s shoulder with his own.
“Plant nerd.” Damiano points to a patch of wildflowers growing between two weathered tombstones. “See those? They only grow in soil with high calcium content. From the bones.”
“Romantic,” I say, unable to hide my smile.
“Hey, you picked us,” Flint reminds me. “Could’ve had normal boyfriends who take you to candlelit dinners.”
Boyfriends. The word hangs in the air between us, new and unexplored.
“Normal is overrated.” I lean back against Damiano’s legs. “Besides, I’ve had enough hospital food to last a lifetime. I don’t need fancy restaurants.”
Their expressions soften at the mention of my illness. It’s strange how something that’s defined me for so long feels less significant when I’m with them.
“Speaking of food,” Damiano says, reaching into his backpack. “I brought something more substantial than lemonade.”
He pulls out a small bundle wrapped in cloth. Inside are slices of crusty bread, wedges of cheese, and dark purple grapes that glisten in the dappled light.
“A picnic in a graveyard.” I laugh. “You two really know how to show a girl a good time.”
“Only the best for you.” Flint echoes his earlier words, but there’s sincerity beneath the playfulness now.
We eat with our fingers, passing food between us, the simple meal somehow tasting better here among the quiet stones than any five-star restaurant could offer.
“I used to come here as a kid,” Damiano says, breaking a piece of bread. “When things got too loud at home. It was the only place nobody looked for me.”
“I came here to steal,” Flint admits with a half-smile. “Metal from the gates, flowers people left that I could resell. Not my proudest moments.”
“And now?” I ask.
“Now we’re here with you,” Damiano says.
Flint nods, his expression unusually open. “Different circumstances.”
“Better ones,” I say, and they both look at me like I’ve said something profound.
For a moment, I forget what brought us together—the blood, the grave, the secrets we keep. For a moment, we’re simply three people finding comfort in each other’s company, sharing food and whiskey in the afternoon sun.
Flint lies back on the bench, his head resting in Damiano’s lap. It’s such a casual intimacy, something I never thought I’d see between them. Damiano automatically starts finger combing Flint’s hair, unsnarling the strands, the white streak stark against the black.
I watch them, these two men who have somehow become my entire world in the span of a chaotic week. There’s still tension between them—years of history don’t disappear overnight—but there’s something else, too. Something healing.