Page 106 of Veil of Secrets

“You think it’s gonna be bad?” she asks, voice steady, ready.

“Always is,” I say, meeting her gaze. “But we’re better.”

She nods, chain glinting as she shifts. “Then we’re ready.”

I stand, offering my hand. She takes it, standing with me, her grip strong. The boardwalk’s empty, but I feel the city stirring, the next fight waiting. We’ve got time, though, a moment we chose, and that’s enough.

“Let’s move,” I say, falling in step beside her.

“Together?” she asks, glancing at me.

“Always,” I say, and we walk, hands brushing, dawn lighting our way.

Chapter 21 – Elara

The couch creaks as I shift, my thigh brushing Nico’s, his warmth cutting through the tension knotting my shoulders. Marco’s dead eyes flash in my head, blood pooling on the casino floor hours ago. My hands are still stained, red crusted under my nails, same as Nico’s. The club’s empty now, shutters down. I look at Nico, his face softened in the dim light, eyes tracing me like he’s reading every tight muscle, every unspoken thought.

“I can hear you thinking from here,” he says, voice low, gentle but not pitying.

“Bad habit,” I say, rolling my neck, trying to loosen the ache. I reach for the small table beside us, fingers closing around the white silk veil there. It’s soft, weightless. I toss it into his lap.

He catches it, brow furrowing slightly. “What’s this?”

I slide off the couch, kneeling in front of him, heart picking up speed. “Just play with me,” I say, voice soft but steady. “Not to hide. Just to breathe.”

His eyes shift, understanding settling in. He rubs the silk between his fingers, searching my face. “What’s the game this time?”

“Bride,” I say, lifting my chin, no joke, just truth. “You’re the groom. Let’s not make it harder than it needs to be.”

He doesn’t question it, just nods, unfolding the veil with care. “Then vow me,” he says, voice barely above a whisper, draping the silk over my head. It falls cool against my skin, framing my face, a fragile shield.

I lean forward, hands on his knees, fingers pressing into denim. My lips brush his chest through his shirt, feeling his breath catch. “I’m still here,” I say, voice low, kissing the pulse at his throat, feeling it jump. “Isn’t that enough?”

His hands find my waist, firm but not rough. “It is,” he says, quiet, honest.

We pause, the veil between us not hiding but holding us, giving permission to drop the walls we carry. My fingers trace his chest, slow, feeling the heat beneath his shirt. He relaxes under my touch, tension giving way to something warmer, deeper. I slide closer, still on my knees, lips grazing his collarbone, tasting salt and skin.

“You know this is dangerous,” he says, voice thick, not just caution but need. “We’re not built for games.”

“This isn’t a game anymore,” I say, meeting his eyes through the veil. “We’re just tired of bleeding alone.”

He looks at me, searching for doubt, finding none. His hand cups my cheek, thumb brushing my skin, gentle but sure. My pulse races, heat pooling low, urgent. “Forever?” he asks, voice rough, almost breaking.

I swallow hard, throat tight. “Maybe.”

His lips curve, a faint smile, knowing we don’t need promises, just this. I stand, pulling him up with me, the veil slipping to my shoulders. My hands tug at his shirt, unbuttoning it fast, pushing it off, nails scraping his chest. He groans, low, grabbing my hips, pulling me against him. His mouth finds mine, hard, hungry, teeth grazing my lip.

I kiss him back, fierce, hands in his hair, tugging him closer. “Tell me this is real,” I say against his mouth, fingers gripping his shoulders. “Tell me we’re not pretending anymore.”

He pulls back, eyes dark, steady. “I’m done pretending with you.”

My chest tightens, his words hitting deep. I push him toward the wall, kissing him again, urgent, tasting his need. His hands slide under my shirt, lifting it off, tossing it aside. I’m in my bra and jeans. He kisses my neck, teeth scraping, making me gasp, head tilting back.

“You’re safe here,” he says, lips against my pulse, voice rough with promise. “With me.”

“I know,” I say, hands fumbling with his belt, tugging it free. He helps, jeans hitting the floor, and I press closer, feeling his heat through my clothes.

Nico’s hands grip my thighs, firm yet careful, as if he fears I might slip through his fingers like smoke. He lifts me, pressing my back against the rough plaster of the wall, its texture biting into my shoulder blades. My legs wrap around his waist, pulling him close, and I kiss him with a hunger that threatens to unravel me.

---