Page 92 of Veil of Secrets

I glance up at Nico. His eyes track me carefully, checking for any sign of hesitation or regret. He finds none, because there’s nothing to find. I tie the scarf carefully around my wrist again, reclaiming the symbolism from earlier—not a bond of restriction, but something stronger.

"We should move," I finally say, softly. My voice is steady, even as my mind spins. "Someone else might’ve heard."

Nico nods in agreement, slipping his blade back into the sheath on his hip, the practiced ease of the motion both reassuring and grim. "Marco won’t stop sending men. He’s getting desperate."

I smirk, stepping around the corpse toward him. "Then we’ll have to show him desperation isn’t strength."

He meets my gaze, something fierce and approving in his eyes. "You really are trouble."

"You keep saying that," I reply lightly, the tension slowly easing back into something manageable. "But you don’t seem to mind."

His lips curl into a faint smile, genuine and rare. "Never said I minded."

I pause, gaze softening slightly. "What happens next?"

He hesitates, his eyes flickering briefly to the body. "We keep moving. Keep hitting Marco back harder until he realizes he’s chasing ghosts."

I nod slowly, heart tightening slightly, but not in fear. Determination settles comfortably into my chest. "Good."

Nico steps closer, carefully skirting the spreading blood. He brushes his knuckles softly against my cheek, eyes dark and intense. "You sure you’re good?"

"Yes," I say quietly, honestly.

He nods once, accepting it without question. "Then we fight."

We linger there a moment, standing close enough to touch, surrounded by blood and death, but anchored in something stronger. Slowly, Nico's fingers trace down my arm, catching my hand and threading our fingers together tightly.

My heartbeat steadies. Not peace, exactly, but certainty—certainty that I’m exactly where I need to be. With him.

"Knight," I whisper, a small smile tugging at my lips.

He chuckles softly, the sound warm and rare, squeezing my hand gently in response. "Princess."

The quiet settles again, more comfortable now despite the violence. The dead man on the floor no longer matters. What matters is the shared space between us, earned through blood and loyalty.

"You trust me?" Nico finally asks, quietly but seriously, eyes carefully studying mine for the truth.

I hold his gaze steadily, giving him the honesty he deserves. "I wouldn't still be here if I didn't."

He nods, relaxing slightly as if my words lifted something heavy off his shoulders. "Then let’s finish this."

I glance down again at the body, feeling no remorse. This is survival. This is ours.

"We will," I say softly, certain.

He squeezes my hand once more before releasing it, turning toward the attic door. "Stay close."

"Always," I promise quietly, following him toward the stairs, ready for whatever comes next.

The attic grows quiet again behind us, shadows swallowing the body like it never existed. It feels symbolic, somehow—the violence behind, possibility ahead. Blood still clings to our skin, but I don’t wash it away—not yet. It’s armor, just like the silk scarf around my wrist. Just like the man walking carefully in front of me.

Maybe we don't get peace. But we get moments. We take what we can, and we don’t let go.

That matters.

He matters.

We matter.

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