Page 168 of The Devil's Thorn
I let out a sharp breath, jaw clenching. “Both of you—shut up and do something useful.”
Nikolai didn’t move. “Rafael. If you pass out before we get to the resort, we’re screwed. Let me look at it.”
I didn’t want to stop. Not for a second. Not until I was sure I was far away from that warehouse, far away from the betrayal, from the failure burning in the back of my mind.
But I knew he was right.
I slowly peeled the jacket from my shoulder with my good hand, gritting my teeth as it stuck to the wound. Nikolai knelt in front of me, using a flashlight from his pocket to examine it.
“Clean graze,” he muttered. “But deep. You lost more blood than I’d like.”
“Not exactly thrilled about it myself,” I said.
Yuri leaned against the opposite wall, arms crossed, still watching the street. “You’re lucky that sniper was impatient. Another inch and we’d be dragging your body out instead.”
I didn’t respond. I just looked down at the blood streaking my side. There was something about seeing your own insides on the outside that made the world tilt just slightly off-center.
Nikolai reached into his pocket, pulled out gauze from his emergency kit. “This’ll hold until we get back. After that, stitches, or we can let Isabella deal with it”
The second he said her name, something twisted in my chest.
“I’ll do it myself before she touches me.”
Yuri snorted. “Yeah, that’s why your feet have been dragging the second we got close. Keep lying to yourself. It’s cute.”
“Fuck off,” I muttered.
Nikolai finished wrapping the makeshift bandage tightly around my arm. “Try not to rip that open in the next twenty minutes, yeah?”
I grunted, pushed off the wall. The dizziness came fast but passed just as quickly.
“Let’s move.”
We slipped back into the shadows. Every movement was heavier now. My legs were getting slower, the fatigue setting in like a hangover from war. I wasn’t sure how long we’d been walking—fifteen, twenty minutes maybe—but it felt like longer.
No one spoke for a while. Just the sound of boots scraping pavement and the distant hum of nightlife, muted by the dark edges of the city.
Eventually, the streets started to clean up. The buildings weren’t leaning anymore. Light spilled from restaurants, neonsigns flickered above low rooftops, and the music was no longer gunfire—it was bass, laughter, clinking glasses.
Cartagena at night could look like peace. But tonight, I knew better. Tonight, the devil had walked through the fire.
And I had the blood to prove it.
“There,” Yuri said, pointing just ahead.
I looked up and saw the edge of the private resort, carved against the cliffside like it didn’t belong to the world below it. The white stone glowed faintly under the low lights. Security guards stood near the entrance, unaware of what we’d just come from.
My jaw flexed as I took it in. I was close.
The lights from the resort bled into my vision. Soft, golden. Too bright. My breath dragged in deep through my teeth as the ground tilted. Just for a second. A second was all it took.
I staggered. My shoulder dipped, and instinct kicked in—I reached blindly to the side, hand locking around someone’s arm. Solid. Warm. Familiar. Yuri.
He paused mid-step and glanced down at me, one brow raising, the ever-present smirk dimming into something sharper. “Well, fuck,” he muttered, shifting to hold me steady. “Easy there, gladiator.”
I straightened, gritting my teeth. “It’s nothing.”
“Yeah, and I’m a fucking nun,” he shot back, steadying me with one arm while his other hand reached to nudge the edge of the gauze. “You’re bleeding through again.”
