Page 112 of Veil of Secrets

Nico stands beside me, silent but watchful. He's waiting for me, always patient in ways I still haven't gotten used to. His shoulder almost touches mine, the warmth from him grounding me, even if just barely. We haven't spoken since we reached this spot, but I feel the unspoken question between us.

My throat tightens slightly. “You ever think about how we ended up here?”

He shifts slightly, turning his head just enough that his eyes find mine. They’re calm, steady. “More often than you think.”

I exhale softly, my fingers gripping the cool rail tighter. “This wasn’t how I pictured my life turning out. Dancing was supposed to be a ticket out, not deeper into all this.”

“I know,” he replies quietly, looking back toward the water. “You deserve better than just surviving.”

I laugh softly, bitterly. “Better is subjective, Nico. Better could be walking away from all this.”

He pauses, shoulders relaxing slightly, but his voice remains even. “Maybe. If you want that, El, I won’t stop you. You’ve earned that choice.”

I feel something twist in my chest. It’s honesty, and it stings. “Would you follow if I left?”

He watches me, a shadow flickering across his eyes. “I can’t. Not yet. You know why.”

I nod slowly, feeling the weight of his words pressing between us. Loyalty isn’t just his strength; it’s his chain. And sometimes, it's mine too.

The waves crash softly beneath us, whispering doubts I’d rather not listen to. My scar pulses faintly, a distant reminder of what this life has cost. Nico shifts, turning to face me fully, his hand reaching out to gently brush the silver chain dangling from my neck.

I watch his fingers, steady and familiar. “If I go, where does that leave us?”

He holds my gaze. “The same place it’s always been. Your choice doesn’t erase what we are.”

I swallow hard, heart beating faster. “What are we, Nico?”

He smiles faintly, not amused, just quietly truthful. “Survivors. Partners. Whatever else you want to call it—that’s yours to decide.”

I let out a shaky breath. “You make it sound easy.”

“Not easy,” he says, voice softer now. “Just honest.”

I look away, watching the horizon darken, swallowing daylight with relentless ease. “I don’t know if I can build something from all the ashes we've created.”

He moves slightly closer, his arm brushing mine now. It’s subtle, comforting. “We don't have to build anything. Not unless it’s something we both want.”

“I think I do,” I admit quietly. “I just don’t know what it looks like yet.”

“Neither do I,” he says simply. “But I trust whatever it’ll become if we build it together.”

My chest loosens, just a little. I glance sideways, finding him already watching me. “Maybe that's enough for now.”

He nods slowly. “Maybe it is.”

The boardwalk’s quiet hum is shattered by the heavy thud of boots, a chaotic rhythm that sets my nerves alight. Nico snaps to attention, his hand gripping the knife at his belt, eyes darting toward the sound. I spin around, muscles tensing, ready to fight or flee.

Four figures emerge from the dusk—three men and a woman, their faces gaunt, eyes burning with a mix of fear and fanaticism. The leader, a lanky man with a jagged scar slicing his cheek, brandishes a serrated blade that glints menacingly.

I don’t think. Adrenaline floods me, hot and sharp, as I snatch a splintered oar leaning against the railing. The scarred man charges, his knife arcing toward my chest. I sidestep, swinging the oar with all my strength, smashing it into his wrist. Bone cracks, and he screams, the blade flying from his grip.

Before he can recover, the woman is on me, her boot slamming into my knee. Pain flares, buckling my leg, but I catch myself, grabbing her arm and yanking her off balance. She stumbles, and I drive my fist into her jaw, the impact jarring my knuckles as she crumples to the boards.

Nico is a blur, his knife flashing as he faces the other two—a stocky man wielding a crowbar and another with a chain wrapped around his fist. The crowbar swings, grazing Nico’s ribs, tearing his shirt and drawing a thin line of blood. He grunts but doesn’t falter, ducking low to slash the man’s calf, deep and precise.

The man bellows, collapsing, but the chain-wielder is faster, his weapon whipping through the air. It catches Nico’s forearm, splitting skin, and I feel a surge of rage. I lunge, tackling the chain-wielder from behind, my shoulder driving into his spine. We hit the ground hard, the impact jarring my teeth, and I slam the oar’s handle into his temple. He goes limp, blood trickling from his scalp.

The scarred leader is back, his good hand clutching a broken bottle now, jagged edges aimed at Nico’s throat. I scramble up, ignoring the throbbing in my knee, and hurl the oar like a spear. It catches him in the chest, knocking him back, and Nico seizes the moment, his knife sinking into the man’s shoulder, twisting brutally.

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