Page 151 of The Devil's Thorn
He leaned back against the wall, crossing his arms. “There was a girl once. Back when I was seventeen. She died in front of me. I had one chance to kill the man who did it, and I took it. But that wasn’t the end. Turns out revenge doesn’t feel as good as it should. Sometimes, it just…sticks. Like it rots in your bones.”
I stepped in then, slowly, my eyes catching on a long-bladed dagger etched with Cyrillic along the handle. “Russia?”
“I served there. Military. Special unit.” He tilted his head. “They taught us how to be ghosts. Then Rafael found me, taught me how to be feared.”
Our eyes locked. “You don’t talk about that girl a lot, do you?” I asked.
He didn’t answer right away. Then his voice softened. “Only when I find someone who reminds me of her.”
I stared at him, unsure of what I was hearing. And then, in the silence, he asked, “Can I braid your hair?”
“What?”
“Just a small part. It’s a thing. A…ritual.”
I hesitated, but nodded slowly. He stepped behind me, his fingers surprisingly gentle as he separated a thin section near the nape of my neck. I felt something thread between the strands—soft, but foreign.
“What is that?”
“Thread,” he said. “Red. In my village, it meant you were going to spill blood for the first time.”
“Spill…?”
He smiled faintly. “Not always literal. But sometimes it was. Either way, it marked a crossing. A before and after.”
I swallowed hard, heart thudding in my chest as his fingers tightened the braid, tying it off with a small knot. “You’re saying I haven’t crossed yet?”
He stepped in front of me again, eyes darker now. “I’m saying you’re close,” he murmured.
And somehow, I believed him.
The door was still ajar, the scent of rum clinging to the air between us like a silent witness. Yuri leaned his back against one of the glass cabinets, his arms crossed as he watched me, but there was nothing lazy or flirtatious in his stare now. Something about the way his eyes had shifted—how the smirk had faded just a little—told me he wasn’t just here to entertain.
He was seeing me.
Not the way Rafael did. Not the way Kellan or Ash did. This wasn’t possessive or protective or even curious. It was something darker. Sharper.
And yet… it didn’t make me want to run.
I stayed standing near the rack of knives, the dim light catching off the red thread braided through my hair. I could still feel the slight tug of
it,a phantom weight against my scalp. As if it meant something more than I wanted it to.
Yuri took a sip of the rum, eyes not leaving me. “So, Belladonna…” he murmured, using the name like it was a secret. “What do you think of your little welcome gift?”
“I’m not sure if you mean the weapons or the cryptic story about Russian ghosts,” I said, folding my arms.
He grinned. “Both.”
“I think you’re either insane,” I said, “or something worse.”
His smile widened like I’d given him a compliment. “The worse ones always last longer.”
I should’ve been unsettled. Maybe I was. But I didn’t look away. “Why did you show me this? Why me?”
Yuri shrugged, the movement easy but deliberate. “Because I think you understand. Most people don’t. They scream when they see blood. Flinch when they hear the word kill. You didn’t even blink when I opened that cabinet.”
My voice was quieter when I asked, “And what did you see?”
