Page 135 of The Devil's Thorn
He doesn’t need to say his name. His presence speaks loud enough.
I glance toward the doors, already feeling him before he’s even stepped inside.
“Let him up.” My voice is steady. Clipped. Controlled. “I’ll be waiting.”
“Of course, Ms. Morelli.”
The line goes dead. I drop the phone onto the counter and move toward the front door. My pulse doesn’t speed up, but I feel it in the silence. Heavy. Expectant. Like something’s about to shift.
I open the door and lean my shoulder against the frame, arms crossed, eyes locked on the elevator at the end of the hall. The floor’s quiet except for the faint hum of the lights overhead.
Then… the soft chime of the elevator.
I straighten slightly. The doors part slowly, and there he is.
Rafael Romanov.
Casual clothes, but he still manages to look sharp. Controlled. Like every line of his body knows exactly what power feels like. Dark jeans. Black t-shirt that fits too well. A jacket slung over one shoulder like he barely had to think about it.
His eyes land on me immediately. Calm. Cold. Curious. And something else.
He steps out, each movement slow, deliberate—like he’s entering enemy territory but already owns the ground he’s walking on.
I don’t move. I don’t speak. I just watch him come closer. Because I asked for this.
Each step he takes toward me echoes in the corridor like it has no right being this quiet between two people like us. His presence doesn’t fill the space—it consumes it. Absorbs the light. Commands the shadows.
When he reaches me, he doesn’t say anything right away. His eyes move slowly—up, down. Assessing. Reading. But not like most men. Rafael doesn’t look at me like I’m something he wants.
He looks at me like I’m something he can’t quite solve. And that’s the difference.
“I’m here,” he says finally, voice low and smooth, like the quiet before a gunshot. “You gonna tell me why?”
I meet his stare. “Not at the door.” I turn, walk back inside without checking if he follows—because I know he does.
I close the door behind him and flick the lock into place, the soft click slicing through the silence like a threat neither of us has voiced yet.
He doesn’t stop at the threshold. He walks in like he owns the place—like caution is for men who fear what waits behind locked doors.
I don’t ask him to sit. But he does anyway. Sprawls on my couch like he’s been here before. Like he belongs.
His arm drapes along the back cushion, his fingers tapping once—twice. He looks out the window at the skyline, then back at me, his gaze unapologetically slow as it moves across my face.
“Should I be expecting gunfire this time?” he asks, dry amusement flickering behind his words.
I tilt my head. “You say that like you didn’t enjoy it.”
He huffs a quiet laugh. “I enjoyed not getting shot.”
I lean against the counter, arms crossed. “Still plenty of time for that.”
A slow smirk tugs at the edge of his mouth, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “You’re unpredictable,Isabella.”
He says my name like he’s still tasting it. Like he’s only just letting himself use it.
“And you’re used to people following orders,” I say.
“That would explain why you’re so… exhausting.”
