Page 3 of Veil of Smoke

Next to him, Camila grins in that shot from junior prom. She’s too loud for the frame, all glitter and teeth, eyes bright with fire that never burned long enough.

I return to the counter and lift the slip again.

Red Thorn.

Dock 7.

The clock on the wall ticks past six.

I wrap the last bouquet, fix the storefront, and count the till. Routine comes easy. Control is muscle here.

Outside, a breeze snags a few leaves across the sidewalk. A man in a hoodie walks past without looking in. I catch sight of the black car again, half a block down this time. Parked. No movement.

It stays there when I finish. When I grab my coat. When I flip the lights.

The slip is already in my pocket.

Chapter 1 – Viviana

Dock 7 doesn’t look like it wants to be found. It broods behind chain-link and gravel, crouched between the edge of the lake and a warehouse graveyard. Mist covers the water like a second skin, thick enough to turn lamp posts into blurred halos. The GPS on my phone gave up two blocks ago. Now it’s just instinct and bad decisions.

My boots scrape across uneven concrete. There’s water somewhere to my left—slapping rhythm against rusted hulls—but the mist blots out the source. Damp clings to my jeans. My coat does nothing to stop the cold pressing through.

I keep walking.

The slip is a stiff edge in my pocket. My fingers graze it once, then again, as if it might change shape. Red Thorn. Dock 7. 9PM.

It’s 8:53.

I reach the mouth of the dock. Faded paint on the corrugated metal says No Entry. The chain-link gate is cracked open. Not wide, but enough.

A single floodlight stutters above, casting more shadow than light. I duck under the chain, heart ticking hard now, each step dragging up questions I already buried.

Metal groans in the wind. A gull cries once and falls quiet. My breath is icy cold.

I round a rusted container.

He’s standing still as a statue.

Broad shoulders. Dark coat. One hand loose at his side, the other hidden. His head tilts as I stop.

For a second, I think I’ve hallucinated him from the fog. Then the light catches his face. He’s real.

And watching me.

“Early,” he says. His voice is rough velvet, low but clear. “That’s bold.”

My spine locks.

“I could say the same.”

He steps forward slowly. No aggression. Just confidence wrapped in patience. His features sharpen in the light—lean cheekbones, strong brow, hair cut close on the sides. Attractive in that way you don’t want to admit right away. Dangerous in ways that don’t need naming.

“You’ve got nerve,” he says, eyeing me from boots to collar. “Most people don’t walk alone into Caldera territory unless they’ve got a death wish.”

My pulse skips but I don’t move.

He looks like he means it.

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