Page 11 of The Devil's Thorn
It doesn’t work.
“Sorry,” I mutter.
Ash doesn’t answer, but I feel the heat of his gaze on the side of my face.
Kellan changes lanes, eyes flicking to the rearview. “So, here’s how this plays out. You show up with your forged ID and glamorous smile. You’re polite, quiet, confident. Accent subtle. Remember, Natasha worked in private estates, so she’s supposed to have poise, not attitude.”
I nod. “Got it.”
“You’re applying for cocktail service, not security, so don’t act like you’re casing the place—let themunderrateyou.”
“Underrating me has never ended well.”
He smirks. “Exactly.”
Ash leans in from the back. “Donotgo rogue. I don’t care what you hear, who you see, or what he says to you. We’re just setting the foundation today. You’re not ready to get pulled into a war yet.”
My fingers twitch in my lap, but I nod once.
“Copy that.”
Kellan continues. “I’ll be in the surveillance room—got a guy on payroll who owes me. I’ll have cameras rerouted if needed. Ash has been assigned a temporary security role through an agency the hotel uses. He’ll be posted on the floor near VIP access.”
“And if something goes wrong?” I ask quietly.
Kellan’s voice lowers. “We pull you out.”
Ash cuts in. “We burn the whole place down if we have to.”
I glance at him. He means it.
He always does.
Kellan finally pulls into a side lot near a service entrance. It’s tucked behind a row of luxury cars, hidden from the main lobby. Therealentrance for people like me. The invisible kind.
The car slows to a stop. I exhale slowly and reach for the door handle.
Ash’s voice stops me. “You walk in there like you own the damn place.”
I pause.
Kellan adds, “And remember who you are.”
I nod once.
“I’m Natasha Orlova.”
Then I step out into the cold and walk toward the lion’s den.
The doors to Hotel Obshor open like jaws—glass and steel and silence—swallowing me whole as I step inside.
For a moment, the world outside disappears. The cold. The street noise. The weight of my name. All of it vanishes beneath marble floors and golden lighting, drowning in the pulse of something colder.
Luxury always smells the same. Expensive. Artificial. Clean in a way that hides the filth just underneath the surface.
My heels are silent as I walk across the lobby, each step echoing softly in the vastness of it. The chandeliers glimmer like distant stars, casting a soft glow over velvet seating, polished brass, and faceless staff who move like shadows. Controlled. Unseen.
I blend in easily.
