Page 49 of Veil of Ashes

I duck low, laughter still tingling in my throat, and dive behind a dumpster. Kieran follows, slamming against it beside me, chest heaving. The stench of garbage hits hard, but I barely notice, my pulse roaring too loud.

He pants, sweat streaking his face, eyes flashing with anger and something electric. “Next time, warn me before you decide to go off script,” he says, voice rough, hands braced on the metal.

I smile, cheeks flushed hot, eyes blazing under the alley’s faint neon spill. “Where’s the fun in that?” I say, catching my breath, the thrill still buzzing through me.

He shakes his head, a sharp laugh breaking free despite himself. Gunfire echoes again, closer now, ricocheting off the wall above us. I press tighter to the dumpster.

For the first time in years, I wasn’t running from something. I was running into it. The thought hits me sharp, lodging deep, as I clutch the painting case closer.

Kieran peers around the edge, gun in hand, checking the alley. “Clear for now,” he says, voice low, wiping his brow with his sleeve. His shirt’s ripped at the shoulder, exposing skin slick with sweat.

My dress clings damp to my back, torn silk fluttering as a breeze cuts through the alley. The city hums beyond, alive and waiting.

“You’re a damn storm, Syl,” he says, turning to me, eyes dark and wild. His breath comes fast, matching mine, and I see it—he’s caught in this as deep as I am.

“Then don’t hold an umbrella,” I say, grinning fierce, leaning closer. My hand brushes his arm, a spark jumping between us, raw and unscripted.

He stares at me, chest still rising quick, then looks away, scanning the shadows. Footsteps pound somewhere close, shouts bouncing off the brick. My laughter fades, but the fire in me doesn’t.

I peek out, neon from the Strip painting the alley in streaks of pink and blue. A bullet grazes the dumpster, metal screeching, and I flinch back, heart kicking harder. This is more than revenge—it’s me, clawing back who I am.

Kieran grabs my wrist again, pulling me up.

“We’re not done,” he says, voice edged with heat. We bolt, weaving through trash bags and crates, my heels scraping rough pavement.

The alley narrows, walls closing in, graffiti blurring past as we run. My lungs burn, but I push faster, the painting case banging against my side. I feel every step, every pulse, alive in the chaos.

A shadow moves ahead—another guard, pistol raised. Kieran shoves me behind him, firing twice, the sound cracking loud. The guard drops, clutching his leg, and we leap over him, not stopping.

The city opens up, neon lights flooding my vision as we hit the street. Cars honk, tires squeal, the Strip alive and roaring around us. I laugh again, sharp and free, adrenaline torching my veins.

Kieran pulls me into a side street, narrower, darker, away from the chase. We stumble against a wall, panting hard, his hand still gripping mine. His eyes lock on me, fierce and searching.

I feel the tear in my dress widen, silk hanging loose over my shoulder. My hair sticks to my neck, damp and wild, but I don’t care—I’m electric, untamed, here.

“You good?” he asks, voice ragged, brushing a hand over his torn sleeve. Blood streaks his knuckles, but he doesn’t flinch.

“Better than good,” I say, chest heaving, smile tugging my lips. The gunfire fades behind us, replaced by the city’s pulse, loud and relentless.

He leans closer, forehead almost touching mine, breath hot between us.

“You’re gonna get us killed,” he says, but there’s no anger—just heat, raw and unguarded.

“Maybe,” I say, tilting my head, meeting his stare. “But you’re here for it.” My fingers brush his chest, feeling his heart pound through the fabric.

He doesn’t pull back, just holds my gaze, torn shirt fluttering in the breeze.

The alley stretches behind us, shadows pooling where we came from. My legs ache, but the rush keeps me standing, keeps me wanting more.

Kieran steps back, checking the street, gun still in hand. “We need to move,” he says, voice steadying, but his eyes linger on me, caught. I nod, smoothing my torn dress, ready.

We vanish into the neon-drenched city, clothes ripped, adrenaline still blazing through us. The painting was fake. The microdot was real. But what terrified me most was how real I felt too.

Chapter 17 – Kieran

I shove the safehouse door closed, the heavy wood thudding against the frame. My hands move quick, twisting the first lock tight, then the second, then the third, each bolt snapping into place with a sharp clack. The Nevada desert sprawls dark outside, stars blazing overhead, but in here, it’s all cement floors, boarded windows, and a tension that chokes the room.

I step to the table, flipping on the camera feeds, fingers brushing the controls. Screens blink to life, green lines tracing the perimeter, sensors beeping steady. Every motion is precise, a fight to claw back control after the mess we ran from.

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