Page 46 of The Devil's Thorn
It’s been a week since I first stood behind his chair. Since he looked at me like I was a puzzle he didn’t ask for but now refuses to let go of.
And in that time?
He’s only called me twice.
Both nights the same—quiet table, no incidents, no commands beyond“Stay.”
He doesn’t flirt. He doesn’t smile. He doesn’t ask my name again.
He just watches me.
And somehow, that’s worse.
Because I don’t know what he’slooking for.
And I don’t know what he’s already found.
Ash is off to the side, sitting on a bench with one ankle propped on his knee, sipping something from a metal bottle and pretending not to watch like a hawk.
Kellan circles me again, raising his gloved hands.
“Come on,” he says. “Get out of your head.”
“I’m not in my head.”
“You always say that when you’re too far in.”
I launch forward again, faster this time. My fists slam into the gloves, heat building in my chest with every strike. It’s not about power. It’s about control.
Control of my pace.
Control of my rage.
Control of the thoughts that won’t shut off at night when I picture Rafael in that black shirt, one hand on his glass, the other resting too casually on the table like it wasn’t a throne.
Kellan absorbs my hit. “Still locked up.”
I grit my teeth. “Say that one more time.”
“Still lo?—”
I move faster. Kellan stumbles back with a grunt, laughing under his breath as he steadies. “There she is.”
Ash speaks from the corner. “Finally pissed her off.”
Kellan lowers his gloves and steps back, nodding toward the water bottles near the bench. “Take five.”
I drop down onto the mat, dragging the band from my hair and shaking it out as sweat clings to the back of my neck. My muscles burn. My breathing slows.
And still… his face sits in the back of my mind.
Rafael’s voice.
His calm.
The way he said“You’re mine”like it wasn’t a threat, but a fact.
Like he meant it.
