Page 65 of Veil of Dust

I’m numb. I have no words. My throat’s too tight, my strength fading as the adrenaline ebbs, leaving only pain and her.

I collapse into the nearest chair, wood creaking under my weight, my body heavy, spent, the machete clattering to the floor beside me.

She moves fast, no hesitation, crossing the bar in a heartbeat. She opens the first aid kit under the register, pulling out gauze, needle, thread, her hands steady despite the urgency in her eyes.

She kneels in front of me, ripping the sleeve wider with a quick tear, exposing the gash, blood welling fresh, spreading over her palms as she works. She doesn’t pull away from the mess, her focus absolute.

She stitches me up, fast and tight, needle piercing skin, thread pulling flesh together with practiced precision. Her hands are sure, but I see the tremor in her fingers, the way her face straightens as she fights to stay calm.

Her breath is short, catching faintly with each stitch, a rhythm that matches the pulse of pain in my arm.

Her fingers stained, blood smearing across her knuckles, marking her with my fight, my survival.

I grit my teeth but don’t make a sound, swallowing the groans that try to escape, my eyes fixed on her face, her brow furrowed, her lips pressed tight.

Every stitch hurts, a sharp pull that grounds me, but it’s nothing compared to the thought of losing her, of failing to keep her safe from Alfeo’s reach.

And I say nothing.

Because I’m still bleeding, inside and out, carrying the weight of the swamp, the warning, the men I killed for her.

The bar’s quiet, save for the faint hum of neon outside, the creak of the floor under her knees. The bar smells of whiskey, wood polish, and blood, thick with the weight of what I’ve done, what I’ll keep doing. The swamp clings to me, its rot in my boots, its metal tang in my throat, but her touch burns it away, anchors me here.

Her eyes flicker to mine, just once, gray and fierce, holding a question she doesn’t ask, a worry she doesn’t voice. I want to tell her about the figure, the warning, the blood I spilled, but the words stay locked, too heavy for this moment. She’s here, she’s safe, and that’s enough for now.

The gash is closed, the stitches tight, a jagged line that’ll scar, a reminder of tonight, of her hands pulling me back from the edge. She wraps gauze around it, her fingers brushing my skin, gentle now, a contrast to the violence I left behind.

The warning echoes in my head, “More is coming,” a promise of battles ahead, but I push it down, focusing on her,on the blood on her hands, mine, binding us closer than words could. Alfeo’s men, the Order, the swamp itself, they can’t break this, not while we’re still standing, still breathing.

She finishes, tying off the gauze, her hands lingering a moment longer than needed, warm against my skin.

I just watch her, with no words, memorizing the way she looks right now, fierce, blood-streaked, mine.

The chair creaks as I shift, pain flaring but bearable, nothing compared to the ache of almost losing her. The machete lies where it fell, blood crusted on its edge, a silent witness to the path I walked tonight, the path I’ll walk again if I have to.

Chapter 15 – Vespera

I pour three shots of bourbon without blinking, the amber liquid catching the neon’s glow, steady in my hands. I line them up on the counter, each glass a soldier in a row, precise, controlled. Then, I slide them down the bar, the motion smooth, practiced, sending them to the waiting hands of a group too loud for their own good.

My hands stay steady, fingers cool against the bottle, betraying none of the unease curling in my gut.

Tiziano sits at the end of the bar, a quiet anchor in the restless hum. His left arm is wrapped in gauze, tucked against his side like he’s used to pain—my stitches, tied last night with trembling fingers from the weight of what he’d survived for me. He hasn’t said much tonight; his eyes are dark and focused, carrying the swamp’s shadow and something heavier, something ours.

Neither have I. Words feel too fragile for the tension coiling between us, the unspoken questions about trust, about what’s coming next.

The bar is half-full, a patchwork of regulars and strangers scattered across tables and stools. Their voices rise and fall, but quieter than usual—muted, as if they’re holding their breath. Even Marvin in booth three, the drunkest one, keeps glancing at the door between sentences, his laughter stuttering like a skipped record.

My eyes sweep the room, slow and deliberate, cataloging every face, every gesture. Something’s off—a dissonance in the bar’s rhythm, a note that doesn’t belong. Too quiet, not in soundbut in intent—the kind of hush that comes when everyone’s waiting for the same thing. Too rehearsed, their laughs timed wrong, their glances too sharp, like actors playing parts they haven’t mastered.

Tomas moves behind me. Fast, but casual—stride smooth, no alarm in it, just purpose. He slides a napkin under my hand as I reach for the next glass, the motion so seamless it could pass for nothing, but I feel the weight of it.

I grab the bottle and pour another round, letting the bourbon move slowly this time—deliberate, giving me space to think. My face stays calm, but my mind races, mapping exits, weighing the odds.

Outside, the sky fades from orange-pink to humid dark, pressing against the windows like a warning. This is my stage, my bar, my fight—and I’m ready for whatever comes next.

I set the bottle down with a soft clink, decision made. Tomas catches my eye and nods; I know he’s with me. Tiziano’s gaze burns into mine—a promise of violence and loyalty sharper than any blade.

The room holds its breath. And I wait.

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