Page 43 of Hollow

The question catches me off guard. No one asks me that kind of thing. Especially not people like her.

“Nothing important,” I say, looking away.

She brings her hand to my jaw and guides my face back to hers. Her fingers are warmer now, almost normal temperature. “Liar.”

Her eyes search mine, questioning. A moment of silence stretches out between us, only our breathing in the quiet greenhouse. I could pull away. Should pull away. This is complicated enough without adding... whatever this is.

She leans forward slightly, then stops, her eyesstill on mine like she’s waiting for permission. Or maybe for me to stop her. When I don’t, she closes the distance between us slowly, giving me every chance to back away.

And then she’s kissing me. Softly at first, barely a brush of her lips against mine, so light I could almost pretend it didn’t happen. She pulls back slightly, gauging my reaction, her breath warm against my face.

“Is this okay?” she whispers.

I should say no. Should get up and put some distance between us. Instead, I nod.

She kisses me again, more certain this time but still hesitant, like she’s not sure she remembers how. Maybe she doesn’t. Maybe the illness has taken this from her, too, like it’s taken so many other normal experiences.

Instead, I slide my hand into her hair, holding her closer as I kiss her back. She makes a small sound against my mouth, something between relief and want. Her body presses against mine, seeking more contact, more warmth.

This is a bad idea. She’s still under the influence of the herbs. She’s vulnerable. She killed someone last night. None of this is a good foundation for whatever is happening. But knowing doesn’t stop me from deepening the kiss, from letting my hand slide down her back to pull her closer.

Her hands wander, too, slipping under the edge of my T-shirt, her cool fingers exploring the skinof my stomach, my ribs. When she touches the tattoo that curves around my side, she pauses, tracing the outline.

“What is it?” she asks against my lips.

“Nightshade.”

“Poisonous?”

“Very.”

She smiles. “Show me more.”

I sit up enough to pull my shirt over my head, feeling strangely exposed in a way that has nothing to do with being shirtless. She studies the artwork covering my chest and arms, her fingers following the lines of vines and symbols across my skin.

“They’re beautiful,” she says, genuinely interested. “Each one means something?”

“Yes.”

“Tell me.”

“Another time.” I catch her hand, pressing my lips to her palm. “Too many stories for tonight.”

She nods, accepting this, and then she’s kissing me again, more urgently this time. Her flannel shirt—my flannel shirt—is too big on her, slipping off one shoulder. I push it aside further, my mouth finding the curve of her neck, the delicate line of her collarbone. Her skin is warming under my touch, flushing with color.

“Damiano,” she breathes, and hearing my name on her lips does something to me I wasn’t expecting.

I slide my hand under the hem of her shirt, finding the smooth skin of her waist, her ribs. She’s so thin, but there’s strength in her, too, the kind that comes from fighting battles most people never see.

She pulls back enough to look at me, her eyes clearer now despite the herbs. “Is this a bad idea?”

“Probably.”

Fuck yes it is. She just killed a guy, is no doubt still in shock. I shouldn’t be thinking with my cock right now, and yet...

“Do you want to stop?” she asks.

I consider lying but can’t. I don’t think it’s possible to ever lie to this girl. “No.”

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