Page 76 of Veil of Ashes
He winces, jaw clenching tight as I scrub gentle over the gash, but he doesn’t pull away, just breathes sharp through his nose.
“Don’t be brave,” I whisper, voice soft as I glance up at him. “Be still, Kieran, let me do this.”
His eyes meet mine, dark and heavy, not with pain but with something softer, a look that peels me open under the early light. I rinse the rag in the bowl beside us, water turning pink as I work, cleaning the slashes across his ribs next, blood flaking off in dark curls onto the rooftop.
I reach for the needle and thread, my fingers steady as I pierce his skin, stitching the deepest cut closed with small, careful pulls.
“Almost done, hold on for me,” I say, pausing to brush my thumb over his arm.
He grunts low, a sound caught in his throat, and I tie off the thread, snipping the excess with a pocketknife. I wipe the sweat beading on his brow with my sleeve, his skin warm under my touch, alive despite the blood and bruises staining him.
I sit back, knees aching from the concrete, and shift to sit beside him, our legs dangling over the ledge as Vegas pulses below like a heartbeat winding down. The rooftop stretches wide around us, open and infinite, a quiet haven above a city that never stops burning, and I let out a breath I didn’t know I was holding.
“We lived,” I say, voice breaking the hush as I stare out at the skyline, gold light creeping higher.
“Because of you, Syl,” he says, turning his head, letting out a shaky breath. “You pulled us through that hell.”
I look at him, his face battered—lip split, cheek scraped raw—but his eyes hold mine, steady and unguarded, a man not an enforcer now. I rest my hands on my thighs, feeling the wind tug at my hair as the dawn brightens around us.
“I used to believe survival was enough,” I say, voice soft in the quiet. “But I want more than scars, Kieran, more than just breathing.”
“Then stay,” he says, shifting closer, his bare shoulder brushing mine, heat seeping through my jacket. “That’s all I ask,” he adds, voice cracking slight, raw with something new. “Stay with me.”
I don’t answer right away, letting his words settle between us, heavy and real in the hush of this rooftop dawn. Below, the Strip hums faint, a dying echo of the night’s chaos, but up here, it’s just us, the wind, and the light breaking soft over the horizon.
I reach for the water bowl again, rinsing my hands clean of his blood, watching the pink swirl fade as I scrub under my nails. My fingers tremble slight, and I flex them, proving they still work after the night we’ve had.
“You’re a mess,” I say, half a smile tugging my lips as I glance at his stitched shoulder, thread stark against his bruised skin.
“You’re one to talk,” he says, chuckling low, a sound rumbling through his chest. “Look at your hands—shaking like you’ve never held a needle before.”
I grin back, faint but real, and scoot closer, my thigh pressing against his, feeling the solid warmth of him through my jeans. The breeze picks up, cool against my neck as I pull my jacket tighter, the leather creaking soft under my grip.
“Easy,” I say, catching his arm as he leans back on his hands, wincing from the pull on his stitches. “Don’t rip what I just fixed.”
He nods, settling still, his breath evening out as he stares out at the city, gold light catching the sweat on his brow. I watch him, the lines of his face softened in this quiet, no masks left between us, no running from what we’ve carved out of the wreckage.
“We’re free now,” I say, voice low as I trace the horizon where the sky meets the desert, a line I never thought we’d cross alive.
“Free’s a start,” he says, eyes locking on mine, dark and deep. “But I want you with me, Syl, not just tonight.”
His hand finds mine, rough fingers lacing through, calluses brushing my skin, blood still crusted under his nails. I squeeze back, my pulse steadying as I look down at our tangled fingers, his knuckles bruised purple from the fight.
“I stitched you up,” I say, voice catching soft as I meet his gaze again. “Guess that means I’m stuck with you, at least ‘til you heal.”
“Good excuse,” he says, laughing quiet, a sound that warms the air between us. “But I’m holding you to more than that.”
His grip tightens, not hard, just enough to anchor me here, and I lean my head on his good shoulder, feeling him breathe. The city below fades to a hum, neon flickering out as the dawn creeps higher, painting the rooftop in soft gold and shadow.
“No more ghosts, Kieran,” I whisper, closing my eyes, listening to the wind and his heartbeat under my cheek. “Just us now.”
“You’re all I see, Syl,” he says, his free hand brushing my jaw, rough thumb tracing my lip. “Scars and all.”
His touch lingers, gentle despite the blood and grit still clinging to him, and I feel something settle, a calm I’ve fought for. I open my eyes, meeting his gaze, seeing the man who bled beside me, not the enforcer I met in the dark.
“Stay,” he says again, softer, a plea wrapped in quiet strength.
“I will, Kieran,” I whisper back, nodding as the dawn spills over us. “I’m here.”
