Page 100 of The Devil's Thorn
“That almost sounded like a compliment.”
“Don’t get used to it.”
I lean back slightly, resting one hand on the desk, watching him. Not like prey.
Not like preyever.
Like an equal. Like the match he didn’t expect to strike this fast or this hard. And I can feel it building again. That tension. That pull.
But I don’t move. And neither does he. Not yet.
His eyes haven’t moved from mine. But his body does. He circles the desk slowly, deliberately, like he’s stalking something he isn’t sure he’s allowed to touch yet.
Then his hand lifts—rough, warm, careful—and the pads of his fingers brush lightly against my arm. Against the shallow slice that still decorates the skin there, half-healed from the night hetestedme with blood and blades and games.
My body tenses, just slightly.
His touch isn’t threatening. But it isn’t gentle either. It’s…studying.
“Still hurts?” he murmurs, fingers grazing the edge of the scar.
“Not really.”
“You didn’t flinch when it happened.”
“Because I’ve felt worse.”
He doesn’t ask what, and I’m not sure if that’s mercy or strategy.
His hand falls away and he turns from me, walking toward the tall cabinet across the room and opening it. The dark wood creaks faintly as he reaches inside, grabbing a bottle and two crystal glasses, his back momentarily to me.
And that’s when the idea slithers through me. Silent. Clean. Sharp.
My fingers drift down to my purse still sitting at the edge of the desk beside me. I flick it open without looking and slide my hand in, fingertips brushing the familiar bottle near the bottom.
I pull one pill free and fold it into my palm.
Just a vitamin. Nothing dangerous. But itfeelslike power.
And when Rafael turns back around, he doesn’t notice the slight shift in my fingers, or how my hand now rests lightly on my thigh, the pill tucked in my fist like a promise.
He pours into one glass, then the other, eyes scanning my face like he’s measuring how much truth I brought with me tonight.
“What else did Alessio say?”
I lean back slightly, expression calm.
“Someone in Calderone’s circle is feeding false intel to both sides. Making the Italians think you’re planning to cut ties with them. He said the Bratva’s name is being whispered where it shouldn’t be—and someone wants that tension to snap.”
“Someone always wants that,” Rafael says, handing me a glass. “But few are dumb enough to rush it.”
I take the drink. Sip once. Let the burn settle on my tongue.
Rafael turns again, his back to me now as he stares out the window. His glass is still untouched. And I move like smoke.
I rise slowly, quiet as the thought behind it, and walk to his desk—my hand gliding low, close to the rim of his glass.
I drop the pill. It sinks fast. The remnants begin to dissolve at the bottom like mist curling in liquid amber.
