Page 35 of The Devil's Thorn
Not just an outsider.
He’s pulling me in.
He’s doing it on purpose.
And I let him.
Because the deeper I go, the closer I get to everything I need.
I nod once. “As you wish.”
His lips twitch—something like amusement.
The woman beside him stiffens. Her hand curls slightly on the tablecloth.
I don’t look at her.
I move to stand behind him instead—right where Nikolai would be, if he were here.
The position isn’t just physical. It’s symbolic. And Rafael knows it.
As I settle behind his chair, another server approaches with a silver tray, balancing a case of cards and a velvet pouch of chips. The table clears in silence, everyone helping with quick, practiced movements.
As the server unpacks the deck and begins arranging the chips, my eyes flick from face to face.
Every man at this table has killed someone.
Every person here plays a different game on the surface than the one underneath.
And now?
So do I.
Because tonight, I’m no longer standing on the edge.
I’ve already been dealt in.
The deck is shuffled. Cards slide with quiet precision across the velvet table, the faint sound of the dealer’s gloves against felt barely audible over the low hum of music in the background.
I stand behind Rafael’s right shoulder—just far enough not to crowd him, close enough to see his cards, his hand, his breathing.
The tension in the room shifts with each chip placed.
Eyes sharpen. Smiles fade. Masks settle.
The real game has begun.
I watch every movement.
The way Mikhail strokes the edge of his card before looking at it. The woman to Rafael’s left—her nail tapping twice on the table before folding. The silent man? He hasn’t blinked once.
Rafael’s hand moves slow, deliberate. Two fingers on his whiskey glass. The other hand lifts the edge of his cards, glances, then drops them without reaction.
A quiet click sounds in my ear.
“You good?”
Kellan.
