Chapter 17 – Kieran
I shove the safehouse door closed, the heavy wood thudding against the frame. My hands move quick, twisting the first lock tight, then the second, then the third, each bolt snapping into place with a sharp clack. The Nevada desert sprawls dark outside, stars blazing overhead, but in here, it’s all cement floors, boarded windows, and a tension that chokes the room.
I step to the table, flipping on the camera feeds, fingers brushing the controls. Screens blink to life, green lines tracing the perimeter, sensors beeping steady. Every motion is precise, a fight to claw back control after the mess we ran from.
Sylvara stretches out across the only couch, barefoot since she tossed her heels in that alley. Her dress clings to her, torn black silk riding up her thighs, one shoulder bare where the fabric split. She’s chaos in human form, hair tangled wild, eyes catching the flicker of the single lamp hanging low.
I catch her staring, lounging there like she didn’t just dodge bullets. “You could’ve been killed,” I say, voice cutting sharp through the stale air, hands pausing on the table.
She sits up, leaning forward, elbows digging into her knees. “You loved it,” she says, lips twitching upward. “Don’t lie.”
My fingers curl, nails scraping the wood. “That wasn’t a plan,” I say, stepping toward her, boots smacking the cement loud. “That was a performance.”
“And you’re still clapping,” she shoots back, voice low and edged, standing to meet me. The torn silk shifts, brushing her skin as she closes the distance.
I glare down at her, chest tightening hard. “You think this is a game? Rizzi’s men almost had you. One wrong step, and you’re done.”
She tilts her head, eyes narrowing into slits. “I didn’t step wrong. I ran. And you were right there with me.” Her words bite, landing with a sting I can’t shake.
“You ran too close,” I say, voice climbing higher. “Too exposed. You’re not bulletproof, Sylvara.”
She steps in, bare feet scuffing the floor, close enough I smell the jasmine on her skin. “Neither are you,” she says, pointing a finger at my chest. “But you’re scared to admit it.”
I pull back, needing space, my boots scraping rough. “I’m not scared,” I say, forcing my tone flat. “I’m trying to keep us breathing.”
She laughs, short and dry, echoing off the low ceiling. “You’re afraid to feel,” she says, jabbing the air again. “That’s why you’re pissed.”
“And you hide behind theatrics,” I snap, turning away, pacing toward the boarded window. “Every move’s a damn show, like bleeding doesn’t count.”
Her eyes flash, tracking me across the room. “It’s not a show,” she says, voice dropping low and fierce. “It’s me. And you hate that you can’t rein it in.”
I stop, spinning back, hands balling into fists at my sides. “I don’t want to rein it in,” I say, louder now, voice bouncing off the walls. “I want you to think.”
“I was thinking,” she says, crossing her arms, silk rustling as she shifts. “You just don’t like where it went.”
The lamp swings faint overhead, throwing her shadow long and jagged across the cement. I wanted to shake her. Or kiss her. Or run. The urge hits me raw, clawing at my insides, shredding my grip.
“You pushed too far,” I say, closing the gap again, voice rougher than I mean. “That guard saw you. If I hadn’t been there—”
“You were,” she cuts in, standing her ground, chin lifting. “And I knew you’d be.” Her certainty stabs, like she’s got me figured out, bet on me every time.
“That’s not a plan,” I say, shaking my head hard. “That’s faith. And faith gets you a bullet.”
She smirks, leaning back against the couch, arms still crossed. “Worked so far,” she says, voice teasing but sharp. “You’re still standing.”
I turn away, dragging a hand through my hair, boots scuffing loud on the floor. The screens beep steady behind me, sensors clear, but my head’s a storm, tangled up in her.
“You don’t get it,” I say, facing the wall, voice dropping low. “One mistake, and it’s over. For both of us.”
“I get it,” she says, softer now, stepping closer, her bare feet whispering on the cement. “But I’m not stopping. Not for you, not for anyone.”
I spin back, meeting her gaze, chest rising fast. “Then what am I supposed to do?” I ask, voice louder than I want, echoing in the tight space. “Watch you burn?”
She holds my stare, fierce and unyielding. “You could burn with me,” she says, voice quiet but heavy, sinking deep. “Or step aside.”
The words hit like a punch, lodging in my gut. My fear twists into anger, but it’s more—her recklessness digs at me because I care, too damn much, and it’s unraveling me.
I step closer, boots striking hard again. “You’re not making this easy,” I say, voice low, rough with everything I can’t voice.
“Good,” she says, lifting her chin high. “Easy’s boring.” Her eyes dare me, bright and bold under the flickering lamp.
I stare at her, torn silk hanging loose, chaos staring back at me. My hands twitch, aching to reach out, to pull her close or shove her back—anything to cut through this pull.
The safehouse closes in, walls tight, ceiling low, lamp buzzing faint above. She’s a fuse I can’t douse, burning through every defense I’ve got, and I’m caught in the blaze.
I pace back to the table, checking the screens again, needing something solid. The feeds show nothing—empty desert, still night—but my focus frays, slipping back to her.
She doesn’t move, just watches me, leaning against the couch like she owns the room. Her hair falls messy over her bare shoulder, silk catching the light, tempting me to look longer.
“You almost died tonight,” I say, turning to her, voice quieter now, but still sharp. “And you’re acting like it’s nothing.”
“It’s not nothing,” she says, pushing off the couch, stepping closer. “It’s everything. And you felt it too.”
I shake my head, stepping back, boots loud on the cement. “I felt you dragging us into a fire,” I say, pointing at her. “That’s what I felt.”
She closes the gap again, relentless. “And you didn’t pull away,” she says, voice steady, eyes locked on mine. “You ran with me.”
I stop, chest tight, staring her down. “Because I had to,” I say, voice rough, barely holding steady. “Not because I wanted to.”
“Liar,” she says, stepping so close I feel her breath. “You’re here because you want to be.”
The wind rattles the door, a low howl cutting through the quiet. My hands flex, restless, caught between wanting to fight her and wanting her closer.
“You’re reckless,” I say, voice dropping, almost a growl. “And it’s going to break us.”
“Maybe,” she says, holding my gaze, unflinching. “But you’re still holding on.”
I turn away, pacing toward the screens again, needing distance. The lamp flickers, casting jagged shadows, and I feel her eyes on my back, burning through me.
The fight fizzles out, leaving a heavy quiet in its wake. Exhaustion settles over us, thick and unrelenting, pressing down on the cramped safehouse. I lean against the table, hands braced on the edge, staring at the screens that show nothing but desert dark.
Sylvara slides down to the floor, her back hitting the wall with a soft thud. She pulls her knees up, torn silk pooling around her thighs, barefoot and still. The lamp casts a faint halo over her, flickering unsteady.
She speaks, voice soft and low. “That Monet? I copied the original when I was nine. My father framed it in our hallway, said it was better than the real thing.”
I glance at her, caught by the way her words hang there, fragile but sharp. Her eyes stay on the floor, tracing cracks in the cement, lost somewhere I can’t follow.
I turn to the table, grabbing a bottle of whiskey from the stash. My hands move slow, pouring a splash into a chipped glass. I don’t drink, just hold it, letting the burn of the scent fill my nose.
“I was fifteen,” I say, voice rough, breaking the stretch of quiet. “First job for the Veyras. Pulled the trigger before I’d even kissed a girl.”
She lifts her head, eyes finding mine across the room. They’re wide, searching, cutting through the shadows. “Did it change you?” she asks, voice barely above a whisper.
I set the glass down, untouched, my fingers lingering on the rim. “No,” I say, meeting her gaze. “But it killed who I might’ve been.”
Her lips part, then close, like she’s tasting the weight of that. The safehouse feels smaller, walls crowding in, the lamp buzzing faint overhead. Outside, the wind rattles the door, a low moan against the stillness.
She shifts, stretching her legs out, silk catching on the rough floor. “We were raised to be weapons,” she says, voice steady now, eyes locked on mine.
I step closer, boots scuffing loud in the hush. “Then why do I feel like a shield around you?” I say, the words slipping out raw, unguarded.
Her breath catches, just enough to notice. She leans her head back against the wall, staring up at me, and I see it—something cracks open in her, mirroring me.
I move nearer, dropping to a crouch in front of her. My hands rest on my knees, close but not touching. I was trained to lie. But not to her. Not tonight.
She reaches out, fingers hovering near the scar on my side, the one peeking through my torn shirt. Her touch brushes the air above it, warm and close, and I flinch—not from pain, but from how near she is.
Her hand pauses, trembling faint, then drops back to her lap. My chest tightens, a pull I can’t name tugging me toward her. I lean in, drawn by her heat, her breath, the way her eyes hold me.
She tilts forward too, hair falling loose over her shoulder, lips close enough I feel their warmth. The space between us shrinks, electric and bare, stripping us down to what’s real.
It’s too much—too raw, too open. I pull back sharp, standing fast, boots scraping the floor. She recoils too, pressing harder against the wall, like we both touched fire.
I turn away, pacing toward the table, hands flexing restless. My heart hammers, loud in my ears, drowning out the crickets chirping beyond the boards.
She stays there, knees drawn up again, staring at the floor. The whiskey glass sits untouched, amber catching the lamp’s flicker, mocking me with its stillness.
I glance back at her, caught by the curve of her neck. We’ve shared blood and bullets, but this—her past, mine—links us tighter than any fight.
“I didn’t know about the Monet,” I say, voice low, breaking the quiet again. “Nine’s young to be that good.”
She nods, slow, fingers tracing a tear in her dress. “He taught me early,” she says, voice soft. “Said I had to learn beauty before I learned survival.”
I step closer, leaning against the couch, looking down at her. “He was right,” I say, keeping it simple. “You’re better than good.”
Her eyes lift, meeting mine, a flicker of something soft passing through them. “And you?” she asks. “Fifteen with a gun. Who taught you?”
I shrug, crossing my arms, feeling the scar itch under my shirt. “No one taught me,” I say. “They just handed it over and pointed.”
She shifts, stretching one leg out, toes brushing the cement. “And you pulled,” she says, not a question, just a fact laid bare.
“Yeah,” I say, voice rougher now. “Didn’t think twice. Not then.”
The lamp buzzes louder, a faint hum filling the gap. Her gaze stays on me, peeling back layers I’ve kept buried, seeing me clear for the first time.
I see her too—past the chaos, past the silk and the dagger. A girl with paint on her hands, a father’s pride framing her work, a life before this mess.
“Why’d you flinch?” she asks, voice quiet, tilting her head. Her hair spills over her shoulder, catching the light, and I feel that pull again.
I look away, toward the boarded window, wind rattling the wood. “Too close,” I say, keeping it short, but it’s more—her reaching for that scar cracked something open.
She nods, like she gets it, curling her arms around her knees. “We’re not good at close,” she says, voice dry, a half-laugh behind it.
“No,” I say, turning back to her. “We’re not.” My boots shift, restless, but I don’t move away this time.
I want to ask more—about her father, that hallway, the girl she was—but the words stick.
She leans her head back, closing her eyes for a beat. “I didn’t think I’d tell you that,” she says, voice soft, almost to herself. “The Monet.”
“I didn’t think I’d tell you either,” I say, stepping closer, voice matching hers. “The Veyras job.”
Her eyes open, finding mine again, steady and deep. “Guess we’re bad at secrets too,” she says, lips twitching faint, not quite a smile.
“Guess so,” I say, crouching down again, closer now. My hand rests on the floor near hers, not touching, but I feel the heat between us.
She shifts, silk rustling, her fingers brushing the cement near mine. The moment hangs, fragile and heavy, like we’re balancing on a wire neither of us can see.
I look at her—really look—and see the cracks, the paint, the fire. She sees me back, past the gun, past the shield, to whatever’s left underneath.
The wind howls outside, rattling the door harder, dust sifting through the cracks. Inside, it’s just us, two weapons trying to figure out if there’s anything pure left to build.