Page 93 of Veil of Smoke

It’s will. Pure and sharpened. A force that’s chosen itself and no longer needs permission.

And I realize something—

I’m not her shield anymore.

I’m her match.

Chapter 21 – Viviana

I kneel beside the motel bed in room 12, the first aid kit open on the floor beside me. Dario lies there, shirt off, his chest bare and slick with sweat, a deep gash carved along his ribs from the shrapnel.

Cracked walls close us in, the neon sign outside humming, casting jagged light across the room. The linoleum tiles are chipped, the sink rusted, and the bed’s covers are torn, carrying a faint whiff of damp linen and cigarettes.

Thunder rolls outside, shaking the thin windowpane. Rain pounds down in sheets, and lightning flashes, throwing sharp shadows over Dario’s pale skin.

His breath hitches as I press a damp cloth to the wound, wiping away blood and grit. I don’t speak—neither does he—and the quiet between us hums louder than the storm.

Blood stains the towel in my hand, bright against the faded fabric. My fingers move steady, cleaning the gash with care, but my chest feels tight, like it’s folding in on itself.

He watches me, eyes dark and pained but calm. I don’t cry, don’t flinch—just keep going, dipping the cloth in water, pressing it back to his skin.

Thunder cracks, loud and sudden, rattling the room. The bulb overhead buzzes, washing dim light over his chest, the wound raw and open, a mark of how close we cut it.

“You almost died for this,” I say finally, voice low and raw, breaking the stillness. “For me.”

“No,” he says, voice rough but firm. “I lived long enough for this—for you.”

I grab the needle and thread from the kit, my hands steady as I start stitching. The first puncture makes him hiss, but he stays still, letting me work.

“I thought if I just stayed quiet enough,” I say, threading the needle through his skin, “the war wouldn’t touch me.”

He shifts slightly, eyes locked on mine. “The war’s been clawing at your door for years. You just finally opened it.”

I press gauze to his ribs, soaking up the fresh blood that seeps out. My fingers tremble once—when he says my name, soft and reverent, “Viviana.”

“Then I guess it picked the wrong house,” I say, tying off the last stitch. He chuckles—grim but proud—and the sound cuts through the tension, warm and real.

I tape the gauze down, smoothing it over his skin. Lightning flashes again, lighting his face—sharp cheekbones, dark hair plastered with sweat, eyes steady on me.

“You’re good at this,” he says, voice softer now, watching me pack the kit. “Steady hands.”

“Practice,” I say, wiping my hands on my jeans. Blood smears there too, a faint streak I don’t bother cleaning off.

Rain hammers the window harder, a steady roar that fills the room. I feel it in my bones—the storm outside, the one we’ve kicked up with Caldera.

I stand, crossing to the sink, washing the blood from my fingers. The water runs pink, swirling down the drain, and I catch his reflection in the cracked mirror—watching me still.

“You’re tougher than I thought,” he says, shifting to sit up, wincing as the movement tugs his stitches. “Always were.”

“Had to be,” I say, drying my hands on a frayed towel. “For her—for us.”

He nods, resting against the headboard, his chest rising shallow. “You didn’t break back there.”

“Didn’t have time to,” I say, stepping back to the bed. I sit on the edge, close enough to feel the heat off him.

Thunder rumbles again, softer now, rolling away. The neon light buzzes, painting his skin in streaks of red and blue.

“I saw you drag me out,” he says, voice low, eyes tracing my face. “Fury, not fear.”

---