Page 47 of Veil of Dust

And she knows it.

My phone buzzes in my pocket.

Vespera’s still watching me, shoulder against the crate, one hand on her hip, the other twitching near the knife Tomas gave her. Her eyes are steady, sharp, cutting through the dim light. She’s waiting for a move. A word. A shift that’ll tell her what I’m holding back.

I check the screen without turning away. My thumb moves fast, instinctively, but I keep my face still.

Bianca: She’s a liability.

Just a statement. Cold, like a blade slipped between ribs.

I delete the message without reading it twice. The words vanish, but their weight lingers, a splinter under my skin.

No reply.

No hesitation.

Vespera’s eyes follow the motion. Her gaze flicks down to the phone, then back to my face, quick and precise. She catches every detail, the way my face tightens, the way my fingers curl around the device.

She doesn’t ask what it said. Doesn’t need to. Her silence is louder than any question.

Doesn’t blink.

She just waits for whatever excuse I’ll give, her posture rigid, like she’s bracing for a lie.

I offer none. My lips stay shut, my eyes locked on hers, daring her to push.

That silence stretches thin. Not uncomfortable, just sharp. It cuts, slicing between us like a wire pulled taut.

It’s the kind of silence where trust frays—not breaks. It just tears at the seam, unraveling what we’ve built thread by thread.

Hers.

And mine.

She nods once, tight, like she’s filing away the moment to revisit later. Her eyes shift, barely, a flicker of something, frustration, maybe doubt, locked behind her teeth.

Then she turns.

Walks toward the stairs. Her movement is deliberate, each step a choice.

No words.

Her boots hit the stone with precision. Not stomping. Not running. Just moving with a kind of tension that knows exactly how loud each step is, each one echoing in the basement’s hollow gut.

Her hair catches what little light filters from the vents, dark strands glinting like they’re pulling the heat with them.

Then she’s gone.

The sound of her footsteps fades into the wood above, leaving a void that presses against my chest.

I stay.

Phone still in hand, its weight heavier now, like it’s carrying Bianca’s words even after I erased them. My thumbhovers over the screen, but there’s nothing to do, nothing to undo.

The basement hums behind me. Refrigeration units drone low, their vibration sinking into the walls. Lights flicker, casting shadows that shift like ghosts across the crates. Generators rumble somewhere deep, a pulse that matches the storm brewing outside.

All of it vibrating with everything we didn’t say.

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