Page 59 of Veil of Dust

My fingers trace the edge of the step, worn smooth by years of her boots, her life. This bar, this apartment, it’s her world, and I’ve stained it with secrets, with blood. But I’ve also fought for it, killed for it, and I’ll keep fighting, even if she pushes me away.

The rain keeps falling, relentless, soaking my sleeves, my hands, washing away the blood but not the ache. I sit, waiting, not for her to call me back, but for the moment I can try again, prove I’m more than the Elder’s shadow.

She’s my fire, my reason, and I’m not done.

The storm roars on, the bar holds its breath, and I stay, tethered to her, to us, by a thread that’s frayed but not broken.

Chapter 13 – Vespera

The storm is gone.

But the heat it left behind lingers in every corner of the room, coiling around me, urging me to break something, someone, myself.

The candles drip into warped pools of wax along the sill, their flames unsteady, casting shadows that twist like my thoughts. The scent of sandalwood thickens, clinging to the sheets, to the sweat dried on my skin, a reminder of the hours spent burning with anger and need. Jazz drags from the turntable, just low enough to force my ears to chase its mournful notes, the trumpet’s cry sinking into my bones.

I sit on the edge of the bed, one leg crossed, silk ties in my lap. Their cool smoothness under my fingers anchors me against the storm inside, the tangle of betrayal and desire I can’t escape.

I hate that I told him to leave. The words scorched my throat, tore loose a piece of me I’m still bleeding from.

But I meant it when I did.

Mostly. Part of me wanted him gone, but another, hungrier part screamed for him to stay, to face the wreckage we’ve made.

I don’t sleep after he’s gone. The bed stays cold, untouched. I don’t light more candles to banish the dark. I don’t cry, though my chest aches with the weight of unshed tears.

I just sit here, back straight, staring at the door and knowing he’s still outside, his presence a pulse through the walls, relentless, pulling at me.

Waiting.

He doesn’t knock. He doesn’t call my name. His silence is louder than any plea, a challenge I can’t ignore.

He just comes back in.

I hear the soft click of the handle first, sharp against the jazz’s hum. Then the faint creak of his boots on the rug, slow, deliberate, like he’s stepping into my trap.

I don’t look up. My eyes stay on the ties, fingers tightening, grounding me in their sleek weight.

He stands there, wet again. Not from rain, just the night’s humidity, his skin glistening with it, his heat filling the room like a storm I can’t outrun.

“I’m sorry,” he says, voice low, rough with guilt and the hours spent outside, heavy with what he’s carried back to me.

I raise my eyes, slow, deliberate, meeting his. They’re dark, raw, pleading for something I’m not ready to give, but open to whatever I demand.

“I’ll accept,” I say, voice cold, sharp as a blade, “on one condition.”

He doesn’t ask what it is. His shoulders straighten, but he holds my gaze, waiting for my verdict.

He doesn’t move.

I stand, walk past him to close the door, my bare feet silent on the rug. The lock clicks, a final sound, sealing us in this reckoning.

Then I turn and hold up the silk ties, their black sheen catching the candlelight like a vow of pain.

“Get on the bed,” I say, the words a command, unyielding, leaving no room for anything but obedience.

He nods once.

No questions. Just a flicker in his eyes, trust and fear woven together, offered to me like a sacrifice.

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