Veiled Eyes

Chapter 5

Control – noun: the power to influence or direct people's behavior or the course of events.

“You could say I had some really bad luck,” I said, my voice catching as I forced the image of the girl’s vacant eyes out of my mind.

“Why try?” Kael asked, his voice barely a whisper. “Try to save her?”

He spoke in clipped, deliberate sentences—not from ignorance, but from caution. I could almost see the thoughts turning behind his eyes, each word weighed before it left his mouth. He was guarded, wary, like a wild animal that had learned the cost of trust.

“She was in trouble,” I said, my voice tight with emotion. “I thought I could help. I couldn’t stand the thought of a child suffering alone out here in the dark.”

His grip on my elbow tightened, the pressure biting into my arm until it was nearly numb. The muscles in his forearm flexed like coiled rope. I could feel the heat of his hand through my sleeve, a stark counterpoint to the chill damp pressing in from the tunnel walls. The darkness was suffocating, swallowing all sense of direction. If only my All C still worked—at least then I’d know what waited ahead.

“What?” I demanded, tugging at my arm, trying to halt his relentless pace. His grip was unyielding, as if my resistance didn’t even register.

“Nothing,” he muttered, pulling me onward.

“Obviously, it’s something,” I pressed, frustration rising. “What is it? You don’t think I should have tried to save a child?”

With a sharp yank, I managed to wrench my arm free. I stumbled back, my side colliding with the rough wall with a sharp sting. I could make out Kael as he spun around, his face marred with anger. His jaw was clenched so tight I could practically hear the teeth grinding.

“I don’t agree with your reason,” he spat, each word edged in bitterness. “The white tower doesn’t give a damn about outsiders. Why would you?”

“Excuse me?” My voice rose, indignation pushing past the ache in my leg. “Haven”—I hit the word hard—“is a place where everyone is safe and equal.”

The statement sounded flat even to my own ears, the familiar cadence of propaganda I’d heard since childhood. It wasn’t entirely untrue—within your assigned rank, you were equal—but the gulf between the ranks was vast, impassable.

Kael scoffed, the sound low and sharp, his anger radiating off him like heat from sunbaked stone. “Safe?” His lip curled. “Maybe if you follow orders without question. Everyone in that damned tower only cares about themselves. You live in comfort and privilege while I scrape to survive—thanks to your people.”

His voice was a snarl now, and the way his shoulders squared made him seem larger, more dangerous in the narrow press of the tunnel.

He closed the distance between us with the deliberate grace of a predator, his eyes fixed on mine. Without a word, his hand shot out, gripping my arm in a bruising hold before yanking me forward.

We moved in tense silence, the sound of our steps muffled by the heavy air. My mind raced, but Kael gave me nothing—not a glance, not a word—just the unyielding pull of his grip as he guided me deeper.

Then we rounded a bend, and a darker shadow resolved into a small opening in the tunnel wall. He led me straight toward it.

A slab of stone blocked the entrance, but Kael pressed a shoulder against it and shoved. The weight of it ground against the floor with a deep, grating sound before it swung aside, revealing a space beyond.

It was a den—cozy compared to the cold tunnel outside. The walls were lined with furs, and the faint orange glow of a low-burning fire cast the stone in shifting shadows. The air inside was warmer, smelling faintly of smoke and leather.

A makeshift bedroll lay tucked into an elevated alcove at the back of the den, piled high with furs and worn blankets. Kael shoved me toward it without ceremony, the force of it sending me sprawling onto the soft surface. The scent of smoke and animal hide clung to the bedding, earthy and faintly metallic.

He turned away from me, his attention shifting to a cluster of bags and pouches stacked neatly along the cave wall. His movements were methodical, deliberate—hands sorting through the contents with an ease that made my skin crawl.

Panic gnawed at my insides, sharp and relentless. My heart pounded in my ears, drowning out the faint crackle of the fire. I was trapped. Injured. Alone in his den.

And I knew, with bone-deep certainty, that if Kael decided to kill me… no one would ever find what was left.

He turned back, a small metal tin in one hand, a roll of bandages in the other. Without a word, he set them on the bed beside me, the soft thud of the metal against the furs sounding far too loud in the enclosed space. Then he lowered himself to one knee in front of me.

His hand reached out, fingers brushing against my leg before gripping the edge of torn fabric. With one sharp motion, he ripped it open, exposing the ugly gash carved into my thigh.

I flinched—not from the pain, though it burned hot and deep—but from the fact that his touch lingered, even briefly. The torn fabric revealed more skin than I’d ever shown anyone. The air in the den suddenly felt thicker, heavier, as his shadow loomed over me.

Heat crept up my neck, flooding my cheeks in a blush I couldn’t suppress. I told myself it was nothing—he was just looking at the cut. Just the cut. He didn’t want to do anything else…

His fingers loosened the belt I’d fastened around my thigh, and a fresh rush of blood spilled from the wound, warm against my skin. He studied it closely, his gaze following the slow, dark pulse as it traced down my leg.

He drew in a sharp breath and closed his eyes for the briefest moment, his expression tightening as though fighting something I couldn’t name. When his eyes opened again, they locked on mine for a heartbeat—then dropped.

His hand rose, brushing against my hip before finding the waistband of my pants. The cold press of his fingers worked the top button loose.

A spike of panic lanced through me. My breath quickened, my body tensing instinctively.

“What are you doing?” I yelped, swatting his hands away. I would have scooted back, but his grip on my leg tightened—a silent reminder of the injury still pulsing hot and angry beneath his fingers.

“I need to clean it,” he said, his voice clipped, almost mechanical.

“But why take them off?” My cheeks burned hotter. The Haven’s rules—its endless lectures on modesty and propriety—echoed in my mind, louder now than the crackle of the fire.

“I need access to the cut.” His tone was flat, impersonal, his gaze fixed on my leg as if I were nothing more than a problem to be solved. “It’s just legs.”

“But—” I stammered, “it’s… forbidden.”

That made him glance up at me, and the look in his eyes was ice. “Then die modest.”

The words were like a slap—quick, sharp, final. He didn’t wait for me to respond, didn’t even seem to care if I did.