Page 24 of Veil of Dust

Neither do I.

She glances at the bar, then back at me. “You know how hard I worked to keep this place clean?”

“I know what it takes to keep it that way,” I say.

Her expression changes yet again. She turns like the conversation’s done, but doesn’t go far. Just grabs the rag again and starts wiping the same section she left earlier.

I walk up to the counter and rest my hands on it. I don’t speak.

She keeps wiping.

Eventually, she stops.

“You think you can fix this?” she asks, still facing down.

“No.”

“Then why are you here?”

“To see how far you’ll let me in.”

She looks at me.

“You’re pushing too hard.”

“And you’re still here.”

She steps out from behind the counter.

I refuse to step back.

We’re close now. I can smell the bar on her—bourbon, cleaning solution, sweat. There’s thunder outside, rolling through the walls.

She stops right in front of me.

Her voice lowers. “I don’t like feeling boxed in.”

“You’re not boxed in,” I say. “You just haven’t stepped out.”

She exhales. Then, she asks, “So what now?”

I pause. “You tell me.”

I move first.

She stays. Her eyes, dark and defiant, hold mine like a challenge.

My hands hit the bar, caging her in. Her breath catches—sharp, barely audible. I feel the heat of her body, close enough to burn.

She smells of smoke and steel, sweat clinging to her skin. Adrenaline’s sharpness mixes with the faint jasmine buried in her hair.

I open my mouth to speak. Nothing comes out.

She grabs my collar with both hands and yanks me down. Her knuckles graze my throat, rough and urgent.

Her lips crash into mine. Hard. No softness—just teeth and heat. “Fuck you, Tiziano,” she mutters against my mouth.

I press into her, my chest flattening against hers. Her back slams into the counter, the wood creaking under the force.

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