Page 95 of Veil of Dust

“Start talking,” I say.

He does.

The moment his confession ends, my body moves.

I don’t think. I react.

I slam him into the crate wall. Wood splinters. Bottles rattle.

His head snaps back. His breath leaves in a grunt.

I step in. My hand grips the front of his shirt. I yank him forward, then shove him back again. Harder. The metal latch of a crate digs into his spine.

“You lied to me,” I hiss. “You watched me bleed. Watched him bleed. And you chose her.”

He doesn’t fight back.

His hands stay loose at his sides.

I cock my arm and swing, fist to jaw.

His head whips sideways. Blood blossoms at the corner of his mouth.

He groans but stays on his feet.

I hit him again. Harder.

This time, he stumbles, one foot slipping on the worn tile. But he doesn’t fall.

“You had every chance to come clean,” I say, voice rising. “You stood beside me. Behind the bar. Behind me—and every time you said you had my back, you had a fucking knife pressed against it.”

Still, no defense. No excuses.

Just blood running down his chin, his breathing ragged.

I can’t stop.

My knuckles crack into his ribs.

He folds forward slightly, but doesn’t raise a hand.

“You don’t even try to defend yourself?” I shout.

“No,” he gasps.

I shove him again.

His back hits the crate stack.

The whole wall shudders.

“You think taking the hits makes you loyal?” I growl.

“No.” His voice is thick. “I think not fighting you is the least I can do.”

My chest heaves.

My fingers curl tighter into his shirt. I twist it.

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