Page 131 of Veil of Dust

It feels like home.

She moves toward me. I watch her walk, her curls loose around her face, the sway in her step easy, like she knows I’m watching and doesn’t mind.

Her eyes stay locked on mine.

There’s a glint of mischief there. A dare.

“One more shot, Valtieri,” she says, resting a hand on the bar. Her voice is playful, confident. “Or are you getting soft on me?”

“Only for you,” I reply.

It comes out easily. Not a line. Just the truth.

I pour the shot. My hands don’t shake.

The bourbon catches the light again as I set the glass in front of her.

She doesn’t reach for it yet. Just leans in.

I wrap an arm around her waist. She fits against me like she’s always belonged there. I breathe in—whiskey, jasmine, something that’s just her. It steadies me more than the bourbon ever could.

I press a kiss to her lips.

It’s slow. No rush. Just connection. A reminder of what we’ve survived. What we’ve built.

Her hand rests on my shoulder. The pressure is light, but grounding. Her mouth moves with mine, sure and soft, like she’s saying everything without needing to speak.

I let the moment stretch. Let the hum of the room fall away for a second.

When we break apart, she rests her forehead against mine. Eyes closed. Breath steady.

I don’t need to say it, but I do anyway. “You’re everything.”

She doesn’t smile. Not right away. Just opens her eyes and looks at me like she believes it.

And I know she does.

The room fades back in around us—conversation picking up, laughter rolling through the bar, chairs scraping across the floor. But she stays close. Her hand still on me. Her warmth still there.

“She’s my reason,” I say to myself.

Not something I’d admit out loud. Not like this. But it’s true.

Her laugh. Her presence. Her fire.

It pulled me out of who I was and into this life.

Tomas catches my eye from across the room and lifts his glass slightly. I nod. He knows. We all do.

The fight isn’t over. We’re still marked. Still watched.

But we’re not running anymore.

We’re living.

I pour another drink for a regular who doesn’t need to ask. Slide it across the counter. He tips his glass in thanks. A small, wordless exchange. Comfortable.

I reach for the wine bottle she likes—dark red, smooth. I pour her a glass. It’s a habit now. One I don’t plan on breaking.

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