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)
My first panicked thought is of Liam—does Damiano want to move the body?
I step forward, a twig snapping beneath my foot, and Damiano whirls around, shovel raised like a weapon.
“Jesus, Briar,” he exhales when he recognizes me, lowering the shovel. “I could have hurt you.”
“What are you doing out here?” I ask, moving closer, eyes on the freshly turned earth.
He runs a hand through his hair, leaving a streak of dirt across his forehead. “Harvesting,” he says simply, nodding toward the bag. “Some of my more... specialized plants grow better away from the gardens. Where people don’t accidentally stumble across them.”
I step closer, peering into the half-dug hole. Sure enough, exposed roots of some kind of plant are visible in the soil. Nothing sinister, nothing dangerous, simply Damiano doing what he does best—tending to green, growing things.
“Sorry,” I say, embarrassed now. “I didn’t mean to interrupt. I just... saw you come into the woods and wondered where you were going.”
His expression softens, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Stalking me?” There’s no accusation in his tone, only a gentle teasing.
“Maybe,” I admit.
He sets down the shovel and closes the distance between us, hands coming to rest on my waist. “Last night was...” He seems at a loss for words.
“Yeah,” I agree. “It was.”
“No regrets?” He searches my face.
I shake my head. “None.”
Something in his eyes flickers with relief as I say this. “Good. Because I’d like to do it again. All of it.”
Heat rushes through me at his words, at the memory of the three of us tangled together in the lighthouse, boundaries dissolving, something new and undefined taking shape.
“Mrs. Fletcher’s leaving today.” I step closer, pressing against him despite the dirt and sweat. “Going to take care of her sister in Anacortes.”
“Is she?” His eyebrows rise slightly, a slow smile spreading. “For how long?”
“At least a week. Maybe longer.” I slip my arms around his neck. “The house will be empty. Just me.”
He lowers his head, his mouth hovering just above mine. “That sounds... convenient.”
“I thought so, too,” I whisper against his lips.
When he kisses me, I taste the salt of his skin, the earthiness that clings to him. It’s different from last night’s desperate passion—slower, sweeter, but with the same underlying current of need.
He pulls back, resting his forehead against mine. “I need to go deeper into the woods today. Got to gather some mushrooms.”
“Mushrooms?” I raise an eyebrow.
“For the Heathens party this weekend.” He tucks a strand of hair behind my ear. “I’ve got a lot of people asking for my... island magic.”
“Your island magic,” I repeat, understanding dawning. “You mean—”
“Makes the night more interesting.”
I think about the herbs he gave me that knocked me out for hours. “I bet they do.”
He steps back, sliding his hands from my waist. “Want to help me look? There’s a spot about a half mile in that grows the best ones this time of year.”
“Lead the way,” I say.
We head deeper into the forest, the light filtering through the canopy in dappled patterns. Damiano points out plants as we go, naming each one, explaining their properties—medicinal, poisonous, hallucinogenic. His knowledge is impressive, his passion for them evident in the way he touches each leaf or petal with reverence.
“So this Heathens party,” I say, stepping carefully over a fallen log. “What exactly is it?”
“It’s hosted by The Vault.” He glances back at me. “Kicks off The Hunt season.”
“So they’re really going through with it early this year,” I say.
He kneels, examining the mushrooms before carefully harvesting them, placing each one in a small cloth bag. “The Hunt brings in a lot of money. Rich people pay serious cash to participate. The masks, the contracts, the luxury baskets afterward.”
“And The Vault organizes all of it?”
“Yeah.” He hands me a bag. “Look for ones like this—cap’s got to be this specific color. If it’s any darker, it’s the poisonous variety.”
I kneel beside him, studying the mushroom he shows me. “So the party is what, some kind of pre-game for The Hunt?”
“More like a rite of passage.” His voice lowers, even though we’re alone in the woods. “Everyone wears masks. Tribal drums, bonfires, dancing. The potential hunters and prey size each other up. By midnight, the red bulbs are distributed, and The Hunt soon follows.”
“And you provide the mushrooms to make it all more... intense.”
He nods, not looking up from his work. “For those who want it.”
We work in silence for a while, the forest quiet around us except for the occasional bird call or rustling in the underbrush. “Will you be there?” I ask. “At the party?”
“Have to be. I provide the goods.” His eyes meet mine, serious now. “But you shouldn’t go anywhere near it, Briar. Not with Viktor still looking for Liam.”
“I wasn’t planning on it,” I say, though part of me wonders what it would be like to see this island ritual up close.