Page 174 of The Devil's Thorn
“I’d prefer if you looked less entertained.”
He huffed once. A low, almost-sound that might’ve passed for amusement if his blood wasn’t drying on my fingertips.
“You’re good at this,” he said after a moment, voice rough.
“I told you. I’ve done it before.”
“For Ash?”
I paused, glancing at him. His expression hadn’t changed. Sharp. Still. Like he wasn’t just bleeding out on my couch in a foreign country after nearly being killed.
Like this was foreplay.
“You jealous?” I asked dryly, finishing another suture and snipping the thread.
“No.” His gaze dragged down to my mouth. “I just like knowing how many men you’ve saved so I can make sure I’m the only one you regret.”
I bit back the urge to curse him and kept working. “Don’t flatter yourself,” I muttered. “I didn’t save you. I patched you up so I could be the one to put you down.”
“Ah,” he said, voice low. “Now that sounds like the woman I know.”
Another stitch. Another pull. He didn’t move.
I could feel the heat from his body now, could see the blood still drying on his ribs and trailing down his side. His skin was tan, marked by old scars—some thin and pale, others darker. Faded burns. A bullet wound near his collarbone. A jagged cut low on his abdomen. Every mark was a story he hadn’t told. Every mark was a life survived.
I finished the last stitch, knotting the thread and leaning back slightly. “You’re done,” I said, voice flat. “Try not to tear them.”
I pulled off the gloves and tossed them into the trash. My palms were sweaty, but my face didn’t show it.
Rafael shifted, slow and deliberate, like the pain hadn’t even touched him. He didn’t wince. He didn’t sigh in relief. He just looked at me. And I hated how my heart stuttered under his gaze.
“Why didn’t you let Nikolai or Yuri do it?” I asked, crossing my arms.
“Because they’ve seen me bleed before.” He leaned back slightly. “You haven’t.”
My mouth tightened. “You brought your wounds to my door to prove something?”
“Maybe.” His eyes stayed on mine. “Or maybe I just wanted to see what you’d do when you realized I don’t break as easily as the men you’ve played before.”
That hit something inside me. A nerve. Something deeper. But I didn’t show it. “I don’t play anyone,” I said. “I win.”
“Not against me.”
The silence that followed was heavy. Pressed between us like a wall neither of us wanted to climb over.
We weren’t friends. We weren’t lovers. We weren’t allies. We were enemies caught in a game that neither of us could walk away from.
He leaned forward, resting his arms on his knees, blood still staining the skin near the fresh stitches. “But you can admit it,” he murmured. “Part of you wanted me to come here tonight.”
I stepped closer. Slowly. “So I could finish what someone else started?”
He didn’t blink. “So you could finally see what you were really up against.”
I didn’t move. Neither did he. But the space between us buzzed like a wire on the verge of snapping. And somewhere in the pit of my stomach, I knew this wasn’t over. Not even close.
The air between us is still, but the kind that hums with something dangerous.
I watched him. He’s no longer wincing, not even from the sting left behind after the last stitch. Just sitting there, shirtless, blood wiped away, skin taut over muscle and scar—those eyes, darker than they should be, locked entirely on me.
