Page 60 of Veil of Smoke

I let go of his throat. He gasps, clutching the wall, coughing hard. I turn away so I don’t kill him while his back is turned. My fingers twitch. My chest still burns. I don’t feel better. I feel worse.

“She’s not yours to protect,” he rasps behind me.

I glance back.

“Well, that doesn’t mean I can’t kill for her,” I say, voice low. “You walk for now. But if I smell Caldera on your boots again, I won’t just press steel to your neck.”

He stares at me, still bent over. “That a threat?”

“No.” I sheath the knife. “It’s a fact.”

I step out of the alley without another word, the rain soaking back through the shoulders of my coat.

Behind me, I hear him whisper, “She’ll hate you too, eventually.”

I don’t answer.

Because maybe he’s right. And maybe that’s the only part that doesn’t scare me.

What scares me is that she might not.

I could’ve killed him. Should’ve.

The night wraps around me as I walk. Wet asphalt reflects the faded reds and blues of the club signs, broken in places by cracks in the pavement. Every step echoes.

I light a cigarette with hands still twitching from restraint. The blade is back in my pocket. My blood’s still on fire.

I think about what Ignazio said. About how they used her without ever saying her name aloud. A ghost, moved on a board by players who thought they were gods.

She’s the one I’d end kings for.

I find the streetlamp outside the busted garage and lean against the wall. Smoke rolls past my lips and disappears into the drizzle.

She’s probably inside, curled under the blanket. I think about her hands on me. The way she pulled me closer, like she wanted to bury herself in skin, not escape it. No apologies. No shame.

It wasn’t about forgetting. It was about remembering—what it feels like to be chosen. To be touched and meant for it.

She chose me.

And now, whether she says it or not, she trusts me to do right by her.

Not with words. With restraint.

I stay out in the rain until the cigarette’s soaked.

Then I go inside.

She’s sitting on the edge of the cot, knees pulled up, arms wrapped around them. The locket—burnt and scraped—is cradled in her palms like it’s still beating.

She doesn’t look up when I step in.

“I didn’t do it,” I say.

She looks at me then.

“No blood?” she asks, voice rough.

I shake my head. “Not tonight.”

---