Page 14 of Veil of Ashes

I toss the rag into the bin and stand. My ribs ache, but I push it down. “I don’t do fear. Not anymore.”

He stays where he is, arms folded. His leather jacket creaks. His face gives nothing away, but his eyes stay on me. He saw everything. The kill. The cleanup.

Not the version of me I show out front, slinging drinks and dodging hands. This is the real one, the one I thought I left behind. It stirs something in me, sharp and unwanted.

“You’re hurt,” he says, pointing at my side with a nod. I look down. Blood soaks through my shirt, dark and spreading.

“It’s not deep. I’ll live.”

He keeps watching me. “Doesn’t mean it’s nothing.”

I turn back to the bin, checking the bags again. The desert chill brushes my skin, mixing with the heat baked into the concrete. My shirt sticks to the wound, and I bite down on the pain.

“Get out of here, Kieran. You don’t need to see this.”

“Already did,” he says, stepping closer. “I’m not leaving.”

I face him, hands balling into fists. “This isn’t a game. That guy wasn’t some barfly. He was sent. For me.”

“You took him out,” he says. His tone stays level, like it’s just a fact. “But you don’t have to do it alone.”

I laugh, and it comes out rough. “Alone is how I stay alive.”

He doesn’t argue. Just stands there.

That spark in me grows, and I hate it. Hate how he fits here, in this filth, like he belongs.

My pack sits on the ground. I grab it, slinging it over my shoulder. The wound pulls, but I ignore it. I need to get inside, patch myself up.

Kieran’s still here, though, and it messes with my head.

“Come here,” he says, quieter now.

I stay put. My side throbs, and my hands itch to move. Then I give in and step closer.

He doesn’t reach for me. Just looks at the blood, then my face. “You look rough,” he says.

No pity, just truth. “You’re not exactly clean yourself,” I say. I nod at his jacket, scuffed and torn at the elbow. “Why are you here?”

“Couldn’t sleep. Was thinking about you.” He shrugs, like it’s no big deal.

I don’t believe him, but I let it go. My head feels fuzzy, the rush from the fight draining out. I’m left hollow, exposed.

Too exposed. His eyes flick to my side again. He takes a step, hand lifting.

“Don’t,” I say, sharp, stepping back.

He stops, hand dropping. “Let me help.”

“I don’t need it.” My voice breaks, and I curse inside. He doesn’t react.

“Maybe I need to do it.”

That hits me. I stare at him, chest tight.

The alley feels smaller, the graffiti-covered walls pressing in. He’s too close, and I smell the leather on him, the faint trace of smoke. My pulse jumps, but not from the fight.

“Fine,” I say, keeping it low. “Not here.”

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