Page 150 of The Devil's Thorn
He turned to face me, stepping just a little too close. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”
We stared at each other, the tension stretching until I looked away, pretending it didn’t shake me.
When we reached the far edge of the resort, he stopped beside the pool, now glowing a deeper shade under the stars. The music was louder here, someone had turned it up.
Yuri raised his drink again and smiled, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Rafael’s good at building walls, you know. Around people. Around himself. But you? You’re a little crack in the stone, Isabella. You let in light, and sometimes light is dangerous.”
I looked at him sharply. “That supposed to mean something?”
He shrugged. “Only that I like watching you screw with his head. Not many people can do that. And I find it… inspiring.”
Before I could answer, footsteps approached behind us—heavier, more measured. Rafael.
He appeared beside Nikolai like a shadow pulling itself into shape, wearing a dark shirt rolled at the sleeves andan unreadable expression. He took in the scene—me, Yuri, the pool—and something flickered in his gaze. Disapproval? Amusement? I couldn’t tell.
Yuri grinned. “Ah, speak of the devil.”
Rafael’s voice was calm, low. “Enjoying the resort?”
I looked at him, but didn’t smile. “So far. Your people have excellent taste.”
He didn’t answer. Just studied me for a beat too long, before glancing at Yuri. “Don’t corrupt her,” he said flatly.
Yuri laughed, raising his glass in mock salute. “No promises, Pakhan.”
I stood still between them, caught in the crackle of something that felt like fire and ice colliding.
And I couldn’t help but think—Cartagena wasn’t the danger.
We were.
Yuri exhaled next to me, “I’m bored’, and without a second thought he took my hand and led me away. Away from Rafael. Away from all the noise, and I let him.
The burn of the Caribbean night settled on my skin as Yuri led me through the stone path, his hand still wrapped around mine. The bottle of rum swung casually from his other fingers, its amber liquid catching the moonlight. I didn’t know where he was taking me. I didn’t ask. His presence was strange—dangerous, yes—but not in the way Rafael’s was. Yuri didn’t feel like a predator lurking in the shadows. He was a storm in daylight. Loud. Laughing. But still capable of drowning you if you weren’t careful.
My gaze dipped to his knuckles as we passed a flickering light. Blood. Dried, dark red smeared faintly across the skin. I tugged lightly at his hand. “You’re bleeding.”
He looked down at it, then smirked. “Oh, that? Just a disagreement with a wall that had a mouth.”
I arched a brow. “And did the wall survive?”
“No.” He threw me a grin. “But it learned to shut the fuck up.”
We stopped in front of a door on the far end of the estate—tucked into the stone wall, nearly invisible unless you knew it was there. He took a key from a chain around his neck and twisted it into the lock.
“I thought you were taking me to see something fun,” I muttered.
“Oh, I am.”
The door creaked open, and the temperature of the air seemed to shift. The room wasn’t large, but the way it was arranged made it feel like a shrine to violence. Weapons lined the walls—rifles, glocks, knives of every size and make, some so beautiful they looked more ceremonial than practical. Hand-carved batons. A whip I didn’t want to ask about. Shelves of ammunition. Everything organized, curated like art.
Yuri stepped in and reached for the switch. A soft, red glow bathed the room in bloodlight. I didn’t step forward. Not yet.
“You can tell a lot about a man by how he kills,” he said, setting the rum down and turning to me. “And more about a woman by how she survives.”
I swallowed, my voice low. “So what does this room say about Rafael?”
Yuri chuckled, slow and full of heat. “That he’s still alive.”
