Page 51 of Veil of Ashes

I pace back to the table, checking the screens again, needing something solid. The feeds show nothing—empty desert, still night—but my focus frays, slipping back to her.

She doesn’t move, just watches me, leaning against the couch like she owns the room. Her hair falls messy over her bare shoulder, silk catching the light, tempting me to look longer.

“You almost died tonight,” I say, turning to her, voice quieter now, but still sharp. “And you’re acting like it’s nothing.”

“It’s not nothing,” she says, pushing off the couch, stepping closer. “It’s everything. And you felt it too.”

I shake my head, stepping back, boots loud on the cement. “I felt you dragging us into a fire,” I say, pointing at her. “That’s what I felt.”

She closes the gap again, relentless. “And you didn’t pull away,” she says, voice steady, eyes locked on mine. “You ran with me.”

I stop, chest tight, staring her down. “Because I had to,” I say, voice rough, barely holding steady. “Not because I wanted to.”

“Liar,” she says, stepping so close I feel her breath. “You’re here because you want to be.”

The wind rattles the door, a low howl cutting through the quiet. My hands flex, restless, caught between wanting to fight her and wanting her closer.

“You’re reckless,” I say, voice dropping, almost a growl. “And it’s going to break us.”

“Maybe,” she says, holding my gaze, unflinching. “But you’re still holding on.”

I turn away, pacing toward the screens again, needing distance. The lamp flickers, casting jagged shadows, and I feel her eyes on my back, burning through me.

The fight fizzles out, leaving a heavy quiet in its wake. Exhaustion settles over us, thick and unrelenting, pressing down on the cramped safehouse. I lean against the table, hands braced on the edge, staring at the screens that show nothing but desert dark.

Sylvara slides down to the floor, her back hitting the wall with a soft thud. She pulls her knees up, torn silk pooling around her thighs, barefoot and still. The lamp casts a faint halo over her, flickering unsteady.

She speaks, voice soft and low. “That Monet? I copied the original when I was nine. My father framed it in our hallway, said it was better than the real thing.”

I glance at her, caught by the way her words hang there, fragile but sharp. Her eyes stay on the floor, tracing cracks in the cement, lost somewhere I can’t follow.

I turn to the table, grabbing a bottle of whiskey from the stash. My hands move slow, pouring a splash into a chipped glass. I don’t drink, just hold it, letting the burn of the scent fill my nose.

“I was fifteen,” I say, voice rough, breaking the stretch of quiet. “First job for the Veyras. Pulled the trigger before I’d even kissed a girl.”

She lifts her head, eyes finding mine across the room. They’re wide, searching, cutting through the shadows. “Did it change you?” she asks, voice barely above a whisper.

I set the glass down, untouched, my fingers lingering on the rim. “No,” I say, meeting her gaze. “But it killed who I might’ve been.”

Her lips part, then close, like she’s tasting the weight of that. The safehouse feels smaller, walls crowding in, the lamp buzzing faint overhead. Outside, the wind rattles the door, a low moan against the stillness.

She shifts, stretching her legs out, silk catching on the rough floor. “We were raised to be weapons,” she says, voice steady now, eyes locked on mine.

I step closer, boots scuffing loud in the hush. “Then why do I feel like a shield around you?” I say, the words slipping out raw, unguarded.

Her breath catches, just enough to notice. She leans her head back against the wall, staring up at me, and I see it—something cracks open in her, mirroring me.

I move nearer, dropping to a crouch in front of her. My hands rest on my knees, close but not touching. I was trained to lie. But not to her. Not tonight.

She reaches out, fingers hovering near the scar on my side, the one peeking through my torn shirt. Her touch brushes the air above it, warm and close, and I flinch—not from pain, but from how near she is.

Her hand pauses, trembling faint, then drops back to her lap. My chest tightens, a pull I can’t name tugging me toward her. I lean in, drawn by her heat, her breath, the way her eyes hold me.

She tilts forward too, hair falling loose over her shoulder, lips close enough I feel their warmth. The space between us shrinks, electric and bare, stripping us down to what’s real.

It’s too much—too raw, too open. I pull back sharp, standing fast, boots scraping the floor. She recoils too, pressing harder against the wall, like we both touched fire.

I turn away, pacing toward the table, hands flexing restless. My heart hammers, loud in my ears, drowning out the crickets chirping beyond the boards.

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