Page 52 of Veil of Ashes

She stays there, knees drawn up again, staring at the floor. The whiskey glass sits untouched, amber catching the lamp’s flicker, mocking me with its stillness.

I glance back at her, caught by the curve of her neck. We’ve shared blood and bullets, but this—her past, mine—links us tighter than any fight.

“I didn’t know about the Monet,” I say, voice low, breaking the quiet again. “Nine’s young to be that good.”

She nods, slow, fingers tracing a tear in her dress. “He taught me early,” she says, voice soft. “Said I had to learn beauty before I learned survival.”

I step closer, leaning against the couch, looking down at her. “He was right,” I say, keeping it simple. “You’re better than good.”

Her eyes lift, meeting mine, a flicker of something soft passing through them. “And you?” she asks. “Fifteen with a gun. Who taught you?”

I shrug, crossing my arms, feeling the scar itch under my shirt. “No one taught me,” I say. “They just handed it over and pointed.”

She shifts, stretching one leg out, toes brushing the cement. “And you pulled,” she says, not a question, just a fact laid bare.

“Yeah,” I say, voice rougher now. “Didn’t think twice. Not then.”

The lamp buzzes louder, a faint hum filling the gap. Her gaze stays on me, peeling back layers I’ve kept buried, seeing me clear for the first time.

I see her too—past the chaos, past the silk and the dagger. A girl with paint on her hands, a father’s pride framing her work, a life before this mess.

“Why’d you flinch?” she asks, voice quiet, tilting her head. Her hair spills over her shoulder, catching the light, and I feel that pull again.

I look away, toward the boarded window, wind rattling the wood. “Too close,” I say, keeping it short, but it’s more—her reaching for that scar cracked something open.

She nods, like she gets it, curling her arms around her knees. “We’re not good at close,” she says, voice dry, a half-laugh behind it.

“No,” I say, turning back to her. “We’re not.” My boots shift, restless, but I don’t move away this time.

I want to ask more—about her father, that hallway, the girl she was—but the words stick.

She leans her head back, closing her eyes for a beat. “I didn’t think I’d tell you that,” she says, voice soft, almost to herself. “The Monet.”

“I didn’t think I’d tell you either,” I say, stepping closer, voice matching hers. “The Veyras job.”

Her eyes open, finding mine again, steady and deep. “Guess we’re bad at secrets too,” she says, lips twitching faint, not quite a smile.

“Guess so,” I say, crouching down again, closer now. My hand rests on the floor near hers, not touching, but I feel the heat between us.

She shifts, silk rustling, her fingers brushing the cement near mine. The moment hangs, fragile and heavy, like we’re balancing on a wire neither of us can see.

I look at her—really look—and see the cracks, the paint, the fire. She sees me back, past the gun, past the shield, to whatever’s left underneath.

The wind howls outside, rattling the door harder, dust sifting through the cracks. Inside, it’s just us, two weapons trying to figure out if there’s anything pure left to build.

Chapter 18 – Sylvara

I pace the bedroom barefoot, the cement floor biting cold against my soles, Kieran’s shirt grazing my thighs with every step. The safehouse bedroom sits sparse and dim, a mattress flung on the floor, old blankets piled messy, a nightstand cradling a lone gun. A cracked window lets in a sliver of moonlight, slicing through the dark, sharpening shadows over shapes.

My heartbeat refuses to calm, thumping wild in my chest, stirred up by our confessions, by the way his words peeled me open. I tug the sleeves of his shirt over my hands, pacing faster, nerves crackling like a storm I can’t outrun.

Kieran leans in the doorway, arms folded loose, watching me with a steadiness that pins me in place. His eyes follow every move, dark and careful, like he thinks I’ll vanish if he blinks. I feel him there, a pull I can’t shake, heavy and warm.

I stop near the mattress, turning to him, breath snagging rough in my throat.

“I don’t want to be alone tonight,” I confess, my voice softer than I mean it to be, stripped bare by the weight of the admission.

He lingers in the doorway, his silhouette framed by the faint glow of the hall. Then he moves, stepping into the room with slow, deliberate strides. His boots scuff the worn floorboards, the sound rough against the desert’s quiet. He stops close, near enough that I catch the scent of sun-baked dust on his skin, the faint burn of whiskey on his breath, sharp and warm.

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