Chapter Eight: Heat in the hollow

The drizzle had faded, leaving the woods damp and quiet, the air thick with pine and the faint rot of wet earth. Sienna leaned against the shack’s warped wall, her breath fogging in the chill, the vial a cold lump in her pocket. Roman stood by the busted window, peering out, his silhouette sharp against the faint moonlight—broad shoulders, torn coat, too damn still for the mess they were in. The radio’s threat—“Bring the vial, or he pays”—still gnawed at her, but her mind was stuck somewhere else, pulled by the way he moved, the way he filled the space.

“Anything out there?” she asked, voice low, rough from the cold, trying to shake the itch crawling up her spine. She rubbed her arms, the cut on her forearm stinging under crusted blood, but it wasn’t the pain nagging her—it was him, standing there like he owned the dark.

He turned, slow, his eyes catching hers—dark, steady, cutting through the dim. “Nothing yet,” he said, voice low, gravelly, like he’d smoked too much or shouted too long. “But they’re close. You feel it?”

She did—something heavy in the air, pressing in—but it wasn’t just danger. It was him, too close in this cramped hole, his presence tugging at her like a thread she didn’t want to pull. “Yeah,” she muttered, looking away, her fingers brushing the vial through her jeans. “Doesn’t mean I’m running out there blind.”

He stepped closer, boots scuffing the dusty floor, stopping just short of her space. “Didn’t say you should,” he said, softer now, his head tilting like he was reading her. “You’re smarter than that.” His voice dipped, rough and warm, and damn if it didn’t hit her low, stirring something she hadn’t felt in too long.

Her breath hitched, and she hated it—hated how his nearness woke her up, how his eyes lingered, dark and deep, pulling her in when she needed to stay sharp. She crossed her arms, leaning harder into the wall, but it didn’t help. He was close enough she could smell him—rain, leather, a faint edge of sweat—and it dragged her back, unbidden, to another night, another man.

Tomas. Her last real thing—two years back, maybe three, a painter like her, all lean muscle and quick hands. They’d been holed up in his loft, paint streaked on their skin, the air thick with turpentine and want. He’d pinned her against the canvas, his mouth hot on her neck, fingers digging into her hips, slow and sure, unraveling her till she’d gasped his name into the dark. It’d been messy, good—too good—until he’d bailed, chasing some gallery deal in Paris, leaving her with a half-finished portrait and a hollow she’d buried deep.

Roman shifted, his coat brushing the wall, and she snapped back, her chest tight. He wasn’t Tomas—too hard, too guarded—but the way he stood there, close and quiet, sparked that same ache, that same stupid pull. She glared at him, daring him to say something, anything, to break it.

“You’re thinking too loud,” he said, voice low, a faint curl to his lips—not a smile, just enough to piss her off. He stepped in, closing the gap, his boots inches from hers, and her pulse jumped, heat creeping up her neck. “What’s going on in your head?”

“None of your damn business,” she shot back, but it came out shaky, her eyes flicking to his mouth—rough, shadowed with stubble—and she cursed herself for it. Her body remembered too well—how it felt to be pressed close, to let go—and Roman was right there, all heat and steel, making it worse.

“Looks like my business,” he said, softer, rougher, his hand lifting—like he might touch her, graze her jaw—and her breath stopped, caught on the edge of it. She could feel him, the air between them buzzing, thick with what could happen if she let it.

His fingers hovered, close enough she swore she felt their warmth, and her mind flashed—Tomas’s hands, paint-slick, sliding down her back, her own voice breaking in the dark—and she wanted it, damn him, wanted to know how Roman’s grip would feel, how he’d sound if she gave in.

She jerked back, slamming against the wall, the thud loud in the quiet. “Back off,” she snapped, voice raw, shoving the memory down, shoving him down. “We’ve got bigger problems.”

His hand dropped, eyes narrowing, but he didn’t step away—stood there, steady, like he knew she’d felt it too. “Yeah,” he said, slow, voice thick. “We do.” He turned, glancing out the window again, but the tension stayed, coiled tight between them.

Before she could catch her breath, a hum broke the silence—low, mechanical, rumbling closer.

Roman stiffened, hand snapping to his gun, and Sienna’s heart kicked up, the vial burning in her pocket. Headlights flared through the trees, faint but growing, and a voice crackled—sharp, warped, from somewhere outside: “Time’s up, Sienna. Bring it—or he bleeds.”