Page 110 of Veil of Dust

She turns back. “But I’m still not leaving this city.”

“I’m not asking you to.”

A beat.

Then her hand slips into mine.

She doesn’t say anything else.

She doesn’t need to.

We grip each other’s hands tight.

The stars burn above.

No flight. No retreat.

Just defiance.

Together.

Chapter 25 – Vespera

His words on the rooftop still echo in my mind: “Run with me.” I pace the apartment, boots hammering the worn hardwood, each step a jolt of fury vibrating through my bones, threatening to splinter the floor. Tiziano’s offer—new life, new names, leave it all—claws at my chest, a raw wound spilling heat, not blood. It’s a betrayal of my bar, my fight, everything I’ve carved out with sweat and defiance.

“You think I can just run?” I mutter, breath sharp, blood roaring like a wildfire in my veins. “This is my world, my heart, and you want me to torch it?”

“Never asked you to burn it,” Tiziano’s voice echoes in my mind, low and steady from last night’s argument, cutting through my rage. “Just to build something new with me.”

My eyes catch the candlelight, glinting like molten steel, sharp enough to slice. The walls feel tighter, the storm outside pressing against the windows, rain pounding like fists, daring me to explode. I’m not thinking—I’m burning, rage tangling with him, me, the world, a knot I can’t unravel.

He stands in the doorway, silent, his silhouette a dark challenge against the storm’s glow, lightning flashing behind him. His presence is electric, a live wire sparking across the room, searing my skin even from this distance.

“You stand there like you’ve got the right,” I say, teeth grinding, fists clenching, nails biting into my palms. “Like you can offer me a cage and call it freedom.”

“Weak’s the last thing I think of you,” he replies, voice low, rough, stepping closer, his dark eyes unyielding, meeting my storm with a calm that sets me ablaze.

I shove him, hard, palms slamming into his chest, fingers digging into muscle, pushing with every ounce of fury, needing him to feel this, to hurt like I do. “You think I’m weak?” I roar, voice a thunderclap, raw, splintering through the jazz’s wail from the old speaker.

“Never,” he says, grabbing my arms, fingers tight, fierce but not cruel, holding me as I thrash, anchoring me to him, to us. “You’re a damn hurricane, Vespera.”

I bite his lip, sharp, desperate, tasting blood and salt, a claim that’s half-punishment, half-prayer, marking him as mine. “You’re my rage,” I say, breath hitching, body trembling with the truth, the need to break him, to break myself on him. “My release.”

“And you’re mine,” he growls, pulling me closer, eyes burning into mine, seeing every wound, every spark, his lips grazing my jaw, sending heat racing down my spine, pooling low.

“Don’t look at me like that,” I snap, chest heaving, fury faltering under his gaze. “Don’t make me want you when I’m trying to hate you.”

“Too late,” he murmurs, voice rough with need, his breath hot against my skin, making me crave his fight, his heat.

The jazz screeches, warped notes clawing through the room, mirroring my screams, jagged and alive. Rain pounds the windows, glass rattling, echoing the storm in my blood, reckless and raw. I kiss him, brutal, teeth clashing, a war of tonguesand hunger, tasting blood, storm, and the bitter truth of us. His hands slide to my waist, gripping hard, pulling me flush against him, his body a furnace, searing through my clothes.

“Don’t make this soft,” I say, voice cracking, but my body betrays me, pressing into him, craving his fire. “Keep it what it is.”

“Never soft,” he replies, voice a rumble, his fingers digging into my hips, grounding me in this chaos.

The candles flicker, their light dancing across his face, catching the blood on his lip, my mark glowing red in the dark. Thunder crashes, shaking the walls, the storm raging with us, urging us deeper into this fire. I tear at his shirt, buttons popping, scattering across the floor, nails raking his chest, leaving red trails that make him hiss, pressing harder against me.

“You’re mine,” I say, breath ragged, hands claiming scars, muscle, heat. “You don’t walk away from this.”

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