Page 33 of Veil of Ashes

I flex my hands, forcing the tremble out. My side aches where the bruises linger, but I’m past that. Healing fast, like always.

The girl I was at fourteen claws up inside me. She trusted no one, survived on scraps and instinct. That girl kept me alive.

This one—softened by Kieran, by his promises—might not. I shove the thought down, hard. No room for it now.

I sit again. The phone’s chip sits there, mocking me. Veyra-coded, Gia’s fingerprints all over it.

Did he know? My head throbs, questions piling up. I grab a soldering iron, twirling it between my fingers.

The heat’s off, but I feel it anyway—anger burning low, ready to flare. I set it down, picking up the chip instead.

I roll it in my palm, small and cold. It’s a key to their world, and I’ve got it now. But it’s also a blade, pointed back at me.

Thunder rumbles closer, shaking the glass. Humid air seeps in, sticking to my skin. I wipe my brow, eyes on the desk.

Papers scatter—blueprints of Rizzi’s routes, server logs I cracked last week. All of it feels tainted now, shadowed by this.

I lean back, chair creaking loud. My thigh protests, stitches pulling, but I ignore it.

Kieran’s face flashes in my head—those steady eyes, that promise. “We’re close,” he said. Close to what? Betrayal?

If he lied about this, what else is he hiding? The question gnaws, bitter and relentless. Do I even want the answer?

I’ve got her signal now. I can turn it back, track her moves. My fingers itch to start, to flip this on her.

But Kieran—he’s the wildcard.

I stand again, pacing to the window. The blinds rattle as I peek out. Vegas glitters below, neon cutting through the haze.

The bar’s quiet tonight, no drunks shouting up. Just the distant growl of thunder, rolling in like a warning.

I turn back, eyes on the gun. It’s loaded, ready. I’m not running—not from Gia, not from him.

I sit at the desk again, chair groaning. The chip glints under the lamp, a tiny bomb I’ve defused. For now.

I grab a pen, scribbling the ping’s coordinates on a scrap. Casino district—Rizzi’s backyard. Gia’s circling tight.

She’s got eyes on him, on us. My jaw tightens, teeth grinding. I drop the pen, fingers curling into a fist.

The storm’s closer, thunder rattling the walls. I set the gun down, barrel aimed at the door. Waiting.

Gia’s out there. Rizzi too. And Kieran—wherever he is, he’s got answers I need. Answers I’ll take, one way or another.

The door creaks open, a slow whine like it’s spilling guilt into the room. Kieran steps in, boots tracking mud across the floorboards. His shirt sticks to him, drenched, and a bruise spreads dark across his jaw.

Sweat and gunpowder cling to him, a sour tang that hits me hard. His eyes find me in the half-light, cutting through the green glow of the desk lamp.

I don’t move. Don’t blink. My hands stay rooted to the table, fingers digging into the edge. The fridge hums low, a faint pulse in the quiet.

I snatch the burner phone—its innards still exposed—and throw it down. It slams onto the table, skidding with a sharp clatter, breaking the stillness.

“Tell me what this is,” I say, voice like a knife’s edge. “Before I put a bullet through your skull.”

His jaw locks tight, not hiding, but bracing. He stands there, mud dripping, water pooling at his feet, eyes holding mine steady.

“I deserve that,” he says, voice soft but clear. He takes a breath, deep and slow. “Gia’s not just watching Rizzi.”

I wait, arms crossing tight over my chest. My nails bite into my skin, leaving sharp little marks. He steps forward, boots leaving wet prints.

---