Page 127 of The Devil's Thorn
“What thefuck—” he growls, voice low and dangerous as hell, but his hands are still checking me for wounds even as he stares down into my face. “Are you hit?!”
I shake my head quickly, breath heavy. “No. But you would’ve been.”
His jaw clenches, rage flashing like lightning in his eyes. “You saw him?” he asks.
I nod. “Top of the building across. East window. Red cloth, left sleeve. Sniper’s gone by now.”
He curses in Russian under his breath. Another shot rings out somewhere in the distance—insidethis time. Screams rise again. His guards return fire. Viktor’s men are moving—some ducking, some advancing.
“Fuck, it’s starting,” I hiss. “It’s Viktor. I stabbed him. He told me everything. He’s not dead—but this is retaliation.”
Rafael’s eyes darken. But he doesn’t waste time. He grabs my wrist. “Get up.”
I do. Fast. He doesn’t let go.
He grips my hand tight, pulling me with him as he moves through the chaos. Security is yelling. Glass crunches underfoot. People push past us. But Rafael doesn’t stop until we burst through a side hallway, the noise dimming as the door swings shut behind us.
His hand is still on mine. And I’m still shaking.
But not from fear. From the fact that I just saved the devil’s life. And we both know it.
The second the heavy door shuts behind us, the noise dulls into a low, distant roar. Gunfire. Screams. Shouted orders muffled by thick walls and reinforced steel. But none of it feels real.
Not compared to the silence in this room. Not compared tohim.
Rafael’s grip doesn’t ease until he locks the door behind us. Thick steel bolts into place with a solidclunk. I hear it. I feel it.
We’re alone.
My breath catches in my throat as I take in the space—dark wood panels, liquor shelves lining one wall, and a single leather couch beneath a moody chandelier. No windows. One way in. One way out.
He moves fast. Shoulders tense, he walks across the room and taps the mic hooked behind his ear. “Nikolai. Now.”
I stand still, chest rising and falling as I try to process what I just did. Blood sticks to my hands, drying between my fingers. My dress clings to my skin in places, the adrenaline starting to fade but the fire in my chest still blazing.
“Status,” Rafael growls.
Nikolai’s voice crackles in his earpiece, too low for me to hear at first, but Rafael’s eyes narrow with every word. He paces near the liquor shelf, expression sharp enough to wound.
“Dead?” he asks. “No—fuck. Not yet. Find him. Viktor had shooters posted. Two down already. I want the rest caughtalive.”
I don’t move. Not until Rafael finally ends the call.
He pulls the mic off, drops it onto the counter, then turns. His eyes meet mine. And for the first time tonight, the silence feels… heavy.
He doesn’t speak. Not immediately. Just stares. And I stare back.
The blood. The chaos. The fact that I had almostkilledfor him, seconds before a bullet meant for his heart shattered the world around us.
He should thank me. He should question me. He should ask why. Instead, he just steps forward—slow, deliberate.
“You stabbed Viktor?” His voice is low now. Controlled.
I nod once. “He told me the plan. Thought I’d be flattered.”
His jaw flexes. A humorless sound escapes his throat, somewhere between a breath and a scoff. “I should’ve known.”
“You underestimated me.” My voice is steady, but something wild stirs behind it. “Again.”
