Vines

Vines

“The dead don’t whisper. They scream.”

There’s a specific kind of silence that happens right before a gunfight.

A breath held by the universe.

A heartbeat stalled.

And then—

Everything burns.

The first shot came from behind the iron filing cabinets. Silas tackled me to the ground before I even heard the second.

Metal sparked. Paper ignited. The archives roared to life in gunfire and chaos.

“Go left!” he barked.

I rolled under a table, heart hammering. Silas returned fire with brutal precision — three shots, three bodies down. The bastard moved like he never left. Like death had kept him trained.

Another figure lunged from the far shelves — Silas spun, shot him through the thigh, then the head. Blood sprayed over the old De Luca accounting ledgers.

“One more!” I called out, spotting movement near the shelves.

I didn’t hesitate. I grabbed the fallen weapon near my foot and shot. Straight through the shoulder.

The man dropped, screaming.

Then silence.

I was shaking. Not from fear — from fury.

“I told you this place was poisoned,” Silas muttered, chest heaving. “You just didn’t want to believe it.”

I tried to stand. My leg buckled.

Then I saw it.

Blood. My blood.

Grazed near my hip — not deep, but enough to paint my dress red.

“Shit,” I whispered, swallowing a groan. “It’s fine, it’s—”

Silas didn’t answer. He was already lifting me into his arms like I weighed nothing, face thunderous and jaw clenched so tight I thought it might snap.

“Silas—”

“I said stay behind me,” he growled.

We moved through the emergency exit tunnel, one he must’ve memorized years ago — every curve, every step. I could feel the fury in him vibrating through his chest, but his grip on me was gentle. Always gentle.

“Put me down—”

“No.”

I didn’t argue again.

Outside, the wind was cold and sharp. It sliced through the night, through the smoke curling up from the vineyard behind us. He carried me through the trees, down the old irrigation path, and into the abandoned barn on the west edge of the estate.

No lights.

Just moon and dust and breath.

He set me down on a broken bench and dropped to his knees.

“Let me see,” he muttered, already pulling a knife from his belt.

My dress was soaked. Torn. The deep burgundy lace Mama had once worn — now soaked in my own blood.

Silas sliced the fabric apart without flinching, baring the wound.

It wasn’t deep.

But the way he looked at it?

Like I was dying.

“You’re shaking,” I whispered.

He didn’t answer. Just ripped part of his shirt and pressed it against the graze, careful but fast.

“This isn’t your fault,” I said, watching him work.

“I should’ve taken you away when I had the chance.”

“You did. Once. You kidnapped me, remember?”

His jaw twitched. “You cried for two hours.”

“I was scared.”

“And I hated myself for it,” he whispered.

My breath caught.

His hands slowed. Then stopped.

He looked up at me, eyes dark and full of regret I hadn’t seen since the night Mama died.

“I don’t know how to love you without ruining you.”

“I’m already ruined,” I said quietly.

He stared for a long time.

Then reached up… and gently pushed my hair behind my ear with bloodstained fingers.

“I’ve missed you,” he said. Voice raw. Broken. “So much I feel like I’m dying.”
That did it.

Something cracked in me.

Not loud. Not sharp.

Just… slow. Crumbling.

I leaned into his touch. Closed my eyes. Let myself feel it — that unbearable weight of wanting him, still, after everything.

We didn’t kiss.

We didn’t say anything else.

We just sat there, side by side in the dark, while the vines outside caught fire behind us.

And I wondered — not for the first time — if the dead were the lucky ones.

Because we were still here.

Still bleeding.

Still burning.

Together.

But barely.

——-

The barn was quiet except for our breathing.

Silas sat beside me on the dusty floor, one knee bent, one hand still stained with my blood. I could feel the warmth of his body close to mine. He didn’t say anything. Didn’t need to.

The silence between us had always been the loudest part.

I stared at the gash on my hip — the makeshift patch from his shirt, already soaking through. I didn’t tell him it stung. I didn’t tell him I liked the way his hands shook when he touched me. Or that I hadn’t felt this safe in years.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured.

At first, I thought I imagined it. But when I looked up, he was already watching me — eyes full of that haunted, hollow grief he always tried to hide behind his fists and sharp tongue.

“For what?” I whispered.

He looked down. “For leaving you. For letting you think I died. For not being the man you needed when everything was falling apart.”

“You were never the problem,” I said before I could stop myself.

His mouth twitched, like he wanted to believe that — but didn’t know how.

“You know what I thought about?” I asked softly. “All those months you were gone?”

He turned to me slowly.

“I thought about your hands,” I said. “I tried to forget you. I burned every letter. I shredded every photo. But I couldn’t stop remembering how your hands felt when they held me like I wasn’t a ticking bomb.”

Silas’s throat bobbed. His hands curled into fists.

I reached for one of them. Slowly. Carefully. Like touching a ghost I wasn’t sure was real.

He didn’t pull away.

I let our fingers tangle — awkward and hesitant at first. But it was like breathing again. I’d forgotten how it felt to just touch him.

“You ruined me,” I said quietly.

He closed his eyes. “I know.”

I leaned my head on his shoulder.

“I loved you so much I would’ve run into hell for you.”

“I would’ve let you,” he said, voice almost a whisper. “And I still might.”

The words made something inside me shatter — again. For the hundredth time. But this time it wasn’t grief. It wasn’t anger.

It was exhaustion.

“I don’t want to survive you again,” I said. “If you leave this time… don’t expect me to live through it.”

He turned toward me slowly, his forehead brushing mine, and I felt the air leave my lungs. I thought he might kiss me. I wanted him to.

But instead, he whispered:

“I’ve missed you so much I feel like dying.”

And then he held me.

Not tightly.

Not desperately.

Just… close. Real. Like he needed the contact to remind himself I was still alive. Still here. Still his — even after everything.

We stayed like that for a long time. Breathing together.

Until dawn broke through the cracks in the barn wall.

And then—

CRUNCH.

A sharp sound outside. Fast. Heavy.

Silas moved first, all muscle and instinct — on his feet, gun drawn, eyes narrowing toward the door.

“Wait,” I said, heart jumping to my throat. “I know that sound. That gait.”

He didn’t lower his gun.

And I didn’t breathe.

The barn door creaked open slowly.

And there he was.

Rafa.

Button-up shirt, slightly wrinkled. Hair too polished for this hour. Smirk on his lips like he wasn’t even surprised to see us.

“Really?” he said, stepping inside. “A barn? How poetic.”

Silas cocked his gun without a word.

“Don’t shoot,” I snapped. “He’s… family.”

“For now,” Rafa said lazily. His eyes met mine, and that familiar softness was gone. Replaced by something colder. Sharper. “I followed you. Guess what I found?”

I stood slowly, my legs weak.

“What do you want, Rafa?”

“You really think he came back for love?” he asked, tilting his head toward Silas. “You think this is some twisted fairytale?”

“Get out,” Silas growled.

But Rafa only smiled wider. “I would… but then who’s going to tell Aria that the people she trusts most are getting ready to bury her?”

The words struck deeper than any bullet.

And I knew.

This wasn’t over.

It was just beginning.