Page 125 of The Devil's Thorn
Viktor’s hand is low on my back, his touch firm, almost possessive, as if he thinks he’s already claimed me. He doesn’t realize that every step I take is calculated, every glance I give him rehearsed. I move like a woman caught in the moment—like lust and danger are the only language I speak. But I’m already three moves ahead.
We pass by Rafael’s table. I don’t look at him immediately—but I feel him. The weight of his stare is undeniable, dragging across my body like smoke. I pause for the briefest moment, long enough to glance his way over my shoulder, long enough for our eyes to lock.
He’s watching. Unmoving. Expression carved from ice. I smile. Just enough to stoke the fire.
Then I turn and keep walking, Viktor tightening his grip as we slip past the velvet ropes and into the hallway beyond the casino floor. It’s quieter here—just music thudding faintly from the walls and the soft click of my heels.
Viktor pushes the bathroom door open behind me and shuts it fast. The lock clicks. And I breathe out slowly.
The room is dim, marble floors gleaming beneath the overhead light. A gold-framed mirror above the sink. Two candles flickering by the vanity. Designed for pleasure, not privacy. Perfect.
He moves first.
Spins me around, pressing my back to the wall with one arm braced beside my head. His mouth crashes onto mine before I can speak, hungry and harsh. His teeth graze my bottom lip as his hands roam my waist, gripping like he wants to mark me.
I let him. Because control isn’t always about resistance—it’s about knowing when togivejust enough.
My hand slides into his hair as I kiss him back, lips parting, tongue brushing his just enough to taste the danger on him. He groans, his body pressing into mine, one hand gliding down my thigh and slipping under the slit of my dress.
“Fuck,” he mutters. “You’re unreal.”
I smile against his mouth. “You have no idea.”
He kisses down my neck, hands groping now, his breath hot. “We don’t have long.”
I pause. “Why not?”
He pulls back just enough to look at me, smirking as he leans in again, voice low against my throat. “Because I have men planted here tonight,” he breathes. “The moment they get the signal, Romanov’s dead.”
He thinks I’m frozen. That I’m going to panic. That I’ll gasp, pull away, maybe ask him to explain.
But I don’t.
I stay exactly where I am—pressed between his chest and the wall, breath warm, fingers still tangled in his hair. I let the words settle between us like ash from a fire I already lit.
“The moment they get the signal, Romanov’s dead.”
My lips part. Not in shock. Not in fear.
I kiss him deeper. He groans against me, body responding instinctively, greedily, as I grind my hips into his. My fingers trail down his neck, over his collarbone, slow and sensuous. My left hand anchors to his shirt while my right hand slides lower—tracing his ribs, slipping beneath the hem.
He thinks I’m lost in the moment. But I’m counting my heartbeats.
One…
Two…
My hand dips along the inside of my thigh, where the blade rests—cool against heated skin, hidden beneath fabric and flesh.I curl my fingers around the hilt, tilting my hips just enough to mask the movement. He moans again, mouth hot on my jaw.
Three…
Four…
I slide the dagger out, smooth and silent. My hand lifts behind his back, his mouth still on mine, his body pressing harder like he thinks he’s conquered something.
Five.
He pulls back slightly, still kissing, panting between words. “Fucking hell… I need?—”
