Page 16 of The Devil's Thorn
I pour a glass of water, the silence stretching tight around me.
I used to crave silence.
Now it feels like a waiting room before the kill.
I sip slowly, my fingers gripping the glass a little too tightly. My pulse still hasn’t fully settled, and I hate that. I hate how my body reacts even when my mind is disciplined. Hate how Rafael’s name—just his name—makes something coil in my stomach I can’t identify.
Not yet.
I carry the glass with me as I walk back to my bedroom. The hallway is dim, lights low, just how I like them. Nothing here is cluttered. No photos. No color. Nothing personal. That was always the rule: don’t bring ghosts where you sleep.
But I keep the locket on.
Always.
I reach up and undo the chain, setting it gently on the dresser beside the bed. My eyes catch the photo inside—worn, faded. A moment frozen in time that I can’t let go of.
They should’ve grown old.
I should’ve had birthdays.
Christmases.
A father who walked me down an aisle. A mother who kissed my cheek when I was too tired to stand.
Instead, I got ash. And blood. And a name to hunt in the dark.
Rafael.
He became my answer when the world stopped giving me questions.
But now… I’m not so sure.
I set the glass down and slowly peel off my clothes, exchanging them for one of the oversized black tees I keep in the drawer by the bed. It swallows my frame, soft against skin that’s always prepared to bruise.
Sliding into the sheets feels foreign. I rarely sleep more than a few hours at a time. Dreams are dangerous things. They trick you into thinking you’re safe, then show you all the ways you’re not.
I lie on my side, facing the window, the lights of the city blinking slowly in the distance.
My fingers curl under the pillow.
Tomorrow, I walk into his world like I belong there. Tomorrow, I become the girl he notices. Tomorrow, the game begins for real.
But tonight… Tonight, I let myself rest in the illusion of silence.
Because for the first time in fifteen years, I’mclose enough to burn him.
And if I do this right, he won’t even see the match in my hand.
CHAPTER 2
RAFAEL
Theroom smelled like steel and smoke.
The morning light filtering through the windows did little to warm the space—it never could. My office was built for function, not comfort. Black walls. Clean lines. No clutter. No distractions. Just space to think. To rule.
Three men sat across from me, their backs straight, eyes forward. They didn’t speak unless I did.
