Page 104 of The Devil's Thorn
He walks without checking if I’m behind him.
Because of course I am. And I follow—heels silent on the dark wood floors, the weight of my dagger once again warm against my thigh.
I watch the way his shoulders move beneath his shirt. The slight sway of his step. Purposeful, confident. Like everything in this house bends to his will.
He leads me through a hallway I didn’t notice before—more shadow than light, lined with deep black wood and a single abstract painting that looks like smoke frozen mid-collapse.
We reach a room. It’s smaller than I expected. Not an office. Not a lounge. Almost…intimate.A private den, maybe.
Low light. A fireplace off to one side. A leather couch the color of storm clouds. And no windows.
Just walls. And the man standing in front of them.
Rafael hands me my glass back. “Sit,” he says, his voice velvet and smoke. “I want your opinion on something.”
I take the glass without blinking.
I don’t sit because he told me to. I sit because Iwantto see what a man like him shows when the doors are closed.
I cross one leg over the other, lean slightly back, and sip. The drink’s sharp. Not too strong. I barely notice the shift in flavor.
Rafael steps to the far end of the room and places his hand against the bookshelf lining the wall. His fingers press lightly over the wood—not random, not hesitant—and I hear a softclick.
Then he pulls.
The shelf swings open like a door. And behind it? A room. Hidden. Sharp. Metal glints everywhere.
It’s a weapons room.
And not just any weapons room. It’s meticulously organized. Rows of guns—pistols, rifles, modified semi-automatics—lined against matte black walls. Stacks of ammunition sealed in labeled crates. Shelves of knives. Tactical gear. Munitions.
It’s avaultdressed as a sanctuary.
My fingers tighten slightly around the glass. Not out of fear. Out of appreciation.
“This is where the real conversations happen,” Rafael says, voice smooth.
“It’s… impressive,” I reply.
“You know your way around this kind of setup?”
“I built something similar in Miami. Smaller. Less… extravagant.”
He raises a brow. “Of course you did.”
I take another sip of the drink. And this time, something pulls a little heavier in my chest.
Just a second. A pause. Not enough to notice. Not enough toworry.But I feel it.
And then it’s gone.
“That one—” I point at a matte black pistol mounted just above eye level, “—custom Glock 19. Shortened barrel. Suppressed. Clean job.”
“Most people wouldn’t catch that at first glance.”
“Most people haven’t fired one in the dark from half a mile away.”
His smile is subtle. But it’s there. “And here I thought I was full of secrets.”
