Page 63 of The Devil's Thorn
“Blood,” I say without thinking.
He smiles faintly.
“No,” he murmurs. “Loyalty.”
Another pause.
Then—
“And what wouldyoubleed for?”
Before I can answer—before I can evenbreathe—The door explodes open.
The sound is deafening.
A crash. A rush of footsteps. The cold rush of air sucked into the room like it’s gasping.
I shoot up from the chair before I even register what’s happening.
Three men. Balaclavas. Black. Tactical gear. Guns drawn. One has a knife. They don’t speak. No shouts. No demands. Just silent, brutal efficiency.
I move instinctively, kicking off my heels in one motion and sliding back behind the armchair just as one of them charges.
Rafael is already on his feet, flipping the glass table in one movement and sending it crashing to the floor.
I duck just as a blade slices the air beside my face—fast and too close.
My shoulder slams into the ground, but I roll, using the momentum to spring back up. One of the men lunges toward me, arm raised, blade flashing.
I twist my body. The knife catches the skin of my upper arm—just a graze, hot and sharp—but I don’t stop.
Pain is distant. Useless.
I slam my elbow into his side, hard, just enough to knock the breath out of him, and twist his wrist.
The blade drops.
I don’t grab it.
Because something else glints under the couch— metal.
A gun.
Just inches from my fingers.
My breath catches. And everything slows. The gun is there, just beneath the couch. Close enough to see the glint of steel, the outline of the grip. But not close enough to grab—not without fighting for it first.
Because the man I just slammed into hasn’t backed off. His blade is gone—lying somewhere behind me—but he’s not.
He lunges. And this time, he uses his full weight.
I barely dodge. His shoulder slams into mine, knocking me sideways and into the ground with a crack of my knees against tile.
Pain spikes—sharp, hot, immediate—but I roll fast, twisting my body under his arm as he reaches to grab me.
He’s bigger. Stronger.
But notfaster.
