Page 33 of The Devil's Thorn
I pour it slowly, carefully, and add the orders from the rest of the table—keeping everything neat, balanced, exact. Then Iarrange the drinks onto the silver tray, check the placement, and turn.
My heels click softly against the floor as I cross back into the casino.
The weight of the drinks is nothing.
But the weight of his gaze?
It finds me before I even look up.
I feel it tracking me. Sliding down my body. Not lustful. Not crude.
Curious.
Like I’m a problem he hasn’t figured out how to solve yet.
Like he doesn’twantto solve it.
He wants to take it apart.
I reach the table and lower the tray onto the polished wood, handing out the drinks carefully, starting with the others.
Then, finally, I step toward him and hold his glass by the base, offering it with both hands.
He takes it without touching me. His fingers brush the crystal, not mine. But his eyes never leave me.
He brings the drink to his lips, sips once. Then he leans back in his chair slightly, eyes dark, mouth curving just enough to shift the entire gravity of the room.
“You chose well,” he says, voice low.
I incline my head. “You look like someone who appreciates fire.”
The silence that follows feels louder than the music.
The woman beside him stiffens just slightly. The men don’t speak.
And Rafael?
He studies me like he’s peeling skin from bone with his stare.
I step back, ready to leave.
But then?—
“Stay.”
His voice cuts through the air like a blade. Smooth. Final.
Like I never had a choice to begin with.
My breath catches, but I don’t let it show.
I don’t move when he tells me to stay. I don’t askhow longorwhy. I don’t even blink.
I just stay.
Because walking away now would be weakness. And weakness has no place at his table.
I stand beside the velvet booth, hands resting lightly behind my back, posture relaxed, eyes lowered—just enough to appear passive, not enough to miss anything.
