Page 119 of The Devil's Thorn
The dress hugs every inch of me, black like ink and sin. The fabric wraps around my neck like a choker, then plunges downward in a deep, dangerous curve—exposing the center of my chest in a tease of skin, without giving anything away. The sides are cut out just enough to reveal the smooth line of my stomach, meeting the curve of my hips before ending mid-thigh.
The gold chain belt wrapped around my waist glints like a warning. Not flashy. Not loud. Butsharp.Every loop carefully placed, catching the light with every breath I take.
My legs are long in blood-red soles. My lips match. Red as the lies I’ve told. And my hair—slicked back into a tight ponytail—feels like a blade being drawn.
I look at myself in the mirror for a long time, the silence heavy behind me. He underestimated me. Again.
Rafael Romanov drugged me, sat across from me while my body failed and my pride shattered quietly between my ribs. He thought that would put me back in line. Thought it would remind me thathe’s the one who writes the rules.
But he forgot who he’s playing with.
Tonight isn’t about Viktor. He’s just the bait.
Tonight is about Rafael watching me wrap danger around my fingers like silk. Tonight is about reminding him that if he’s going to sit across from me, he better come armed.
I take one last look at myself, then turn and walk out of the bedroom.
The living room glows soft under the golden lights. Kellan is by the bar, pouring a drink with the kind of calm that hides a storm underneath. Ash is leaning against the wall near the door, adjusting the cuffs of his black shirt, sleeves rolled up, gun holstered just out of sight.
They both look up when I enter. Kellan’s eyebrows lift a fraction. “You planning to kill someone, or seduce them first?”
“Whichever gets me there faster,” I say, stepping into the room like it belongs to me.
Ash lets out a low whistle. “If you told me last year I’d be playing guard dog to a woman like you, I would’ve laughed in your face.”
“You’re still allowed to laugh,” I murmur, walking past him, reaching for the clutch on the console table.
“I’m just trying to figure out if we’re showing up to a war or a funeral,” he adds, watching me carefully.
“Both,” I answer simply. “But I’m not the one being buried.”
Kellan hands me a drink—something sharp and clear—and I take a slow sip before setting it back down.
“You remember the photo of Viktor?” I ask.
Ash nods. “We’ll keep eyes on him. And you.”
“You know where you’ll be?” I ask.
Kellan steps closer, his gaze sharp. “We’ve got the upstairs exit, main floor, and south hallway covered. If anything feels off, you get out.”
I smile. “You say that like I’d actually run.”
“You say that like I won’t drag you out if I have to.”
I don’t respond. I just hold his stare. Unflinching. Eventually, Ash breaks the tension with a smirk. “Let’s go ruin someone’s night.”
I turn toward the door, the soft click of my heels against marble trailing after me like a threat. The boys follow, suits dark, eyes sharper.
As the elevator opens, I glance once more at my reflection in the mirrored panel.
Danger. Wrapped in velvet.
Death. Wearing red lipstick.
Let Rafael watch. Because tonight, I burn the board.
The soft hum of the elevator is the only sound between us. Ash stands beside me, arms folded, eyes locked on the descending numbers as if they might blink and vanish. Kellan is quiet, too. But his silence is never passive. It pulses with awareness. Readiness.
