Page 21 of The Devil's Thorn
I didn’t need to.
Because deep down, I already knew— I didn’t want to touch her yet.
I wanted towatch her.
And I wanted to see what she’d do when she realized I was.
I stared at the folder a moment longer, the weight of her name settling deeper into my thoughts than it had any right to.
Natasha Orlova.
The kind of name designed to be forgettable in this world—Russian enough to blend in, clean enough not to raise suspicion. A ghost with perfect posture and a silence that said more than most people’s screams.
I closed the folder and slid it across the desk to Nikolai.
“She’s working the floor tonight?”
“Yes,” he confirmed. “She’s scheduled to float between VIP tables. Light service. No assigned clients.”
I let that sit for a beat.
No assigned clients.
That wasn’t going to work.
My gaze cut to Nikolai. “Put her on my section.”
He didn’t move. Didn’t blink. “You want her serving your table?”
“I want hervisible,” I corrected, voice low. “Not floating. Not fading into a crowd. I want her where I can watch her.”
Nikolai’s eyes narrowed, but he nodded once. “Understood.”
“And when I arrive,” I added, turning toward the window, the city washed in soft grey light below, “send her to me.”
Not a request.
A command.
Not to speak. Not to pour a drink. Not even to stay.
Just to stand there.
To exist within arm’s reach.
Tosee what she does when the game starts for real.
Nikolai gave a short nod before turning and leaving the office, the door closing with a muted click behind him.
Silence settled again. Heavy. Expectant. I moved slowly, deliberately, back to the console. My fingers hovered for a second before I tapped the screen.
The feed rewound—footage already logged, time-stamped, burned into my memory. But I watched it again anyway.
Her again.
Natasha.
She entered 15B like she’d walked through rooms like that a hundred times before. No hesitation. No false modesty. No performance.
