Page 48 of Veil of Dust

I listen to the floorboards creak above me. Her movement carries through the wood, deliberate, measured. The pacing, slow at first, then a pause, like she’s standing still, thinking.

She’s not retreating. She’s repositioning, recalibrating, weighing every moment we’ve shared against the secrets I keep.

And I know that sound now. It’s the sound of her deciding who I really am, what I’m worth to her.

The crack’s widening, I think, the words bitter in my mind. And we’re both about to fall through it.

The basement feels smaller now, the walls closing in, concrete cold against my back as I lean into it. Vespera’s presence lingers.

I close my eyes for a second, and she’s there, burned into me, her gaze cutting through the dark like it did moments ago.

Bianca’s message hangs heavy, a shadow I can’t shake. She’s a liability. The words were meant to provoke, to push me into cutting Vespera loose, but they only tighten the knot in my chest.

Bianca doesn’t know her, doesn’t see the way Vespera stands against the world, unyielding, even when it’s my mess dragging her down.

I shove the phone into my pocket, the motion sharp, final. My hands flex, itching for something to hold, something to break. The crates stare back, silent witnesses to the empire I’m building beneath her bar, the cash and secrets piling higher every day.

Her touch from earlier, that fleeting graze, still burns on my skin. It wasn’t soft, wasn’t meant to be, but it was hers, and it’s enough to keep me tethered to this moment, to her.

I see her now, in my head, the way her eyes held mine, not angry but searching, demanding truth I can’t give.

The hum of the basement grows louder, or maybe it’s my pulse, thudding in my ears. The vents above let in slivers of light, dust motes dancing in the beams, but they don’t reach the corners, don’t touch the shadows pooling where the crates hide my work.

The storm outside presses closer, its low rumble vibrating through the walls, a warning that time’s running thin.

Vespera’s steps start again above, slower now, deliberate, like she’s circling something in her mind. I track each one, mapping her path across the bar, knowing she’s not running from this, from me. She’s digging in, same as I am, even if she hates the ground we’re standing on.

I move to the crate I packed earlier, my fingers brushing the wood, rough and worn under my touch. It’s more than cash inside, it’s leverage, a way out if the Order comes knocking, ifAlfeo’s hitters breach the walls. But it’s a chain too, binding her to me, to this life I’ve pulled her into.

She knows it, feels it, and that’s what makes her pause, what makes her look at me like I’m both anchor and storm.

The knife at her waistband flashes in my memory, Tomas’s gift, a blade she’s made her own. It’s not just steel, it’s defiance, a piece of her readiness to fight what’s coming.

Tomas saw it, gave it to her, and I wonder what else he sees, what else he knows. His warning about Alfeo wasn’t news, but it was confirmation, a signal that the net’s tightening.

I lean against the wall, the concrete cool through my shirt, grounding me. My hands are empty now, but they feel heavy, stained with choices I can’t wash off.

Vespera’s up there, pacing, deciding, and I’m down here, holding the pieces of a war I started for her. The crack between us is growing, not because we want it to, but because the world won’t let us stand still.

The storm outside growls louder, rain starting to patter against the vents, a soft hiss that promises more. I listen to her steps again, steady, unyielding, and I know she’s not done with me. But trust is fragile, and I’ve just torn another thread.

I’d kill for her. I’ve said it, meant it, and proved it in the swamp. But it’s not enough, not when she’s looking at me like I’m a secret she can’t crack.

The basement hums on, oblivious, its shadows hiding what we both fear, the moment when the crack becomes a chasm.

Chapter 10 – Vespera

The bayou doesn’t whisper tonight.

It waits.

Every branch, every root, every pocket of standing water holds its breath, tense and silent. Mud grips my boots with each step, thick and sucking, as if it wants to pin me in place and drag me into its depths.

I don’t let it. My muscles tense, pushing through the resistance, steady and deliberate.

I move.

The coordinates Tomas gave me weren’t precise, just enough to point me here, to this forgotten corner of the swamp. He said Alfeo sent someone to check this stretch of the bayou. Another scout. A dog sniffing for cracks in our defenses, looking for a way to bite.

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