Page 67 of The Devil's Thorn
My jaw clenches. Behind me, I hear him pick something up off the bar—metal clinking. A bottle. A glass. I turn my head slightly, but not enough to see what he’s doing.
Then— he steps beside me again. And without warning, he uncaps the bottle and pours the contents straight over my wounded arm. Alcohol.
The sting is immediate. Hot. White. Sharp.
I hiss between my teeth, biting the inside of my cheek to keep from reacting more than I already have.
“Has to be disinfected,” he says, almost gently.
But his tone makes it worse. Like he’s pretending to be considerate, when we both know this is punishment. A reminder. A show of control.
Before I can pull away, Ash is on his feet.
“Enough,” he growls, fists already curled at his sides as he strides forward.
He’s aiming straight for Rafael.
“Ash—” I snap, sharp and low.
He freezes mid-step. Chest heaving. Eyes locked on Rafael like he wants nothing more than to bury him where he stands.
But he listens. He stops. And Rafael notices.
He turns toward me again, brows slightly raised.
“They follow your orders,” he murmurs, voice like silk over steel. “Good soldiers.”
“They’re not soldiers,” I say through gritted teeth. “They’re mine.”
He hums like he’s impressed, but he doesn’t respond to that. Not directly. He moves toward the center of the room, his eyes now sweeping between the three of us.
“You’ve been inside my walls for weeks,” he says, voice low but firm. “Listening. Watching. Taking notes, I assume?”
I don’t speak.
Kellan does.
“Maybe you shouldn’t leave doors half open if you don’t want people to walk through them.”
Rafael tilts his head.
“And the casino footage? The looped feeds? What was the goal there?”
Ash’s jaw tightens, but it’s Kellan who answers again.
“To keep her safe.”
Rafael’s eyes flick to mine, unreadable. “She doesn’t look like she needs protecting.”
“She doesn’t,” Kellan snaps. “But we still do it.”
There’s a pause. Heavy. Like the room is holding its breath.
Rafael studies us again, but he’s already seen what he needs to see. He turns toward the doorway, where a few of his men still stand near the exit, eyes alert, weapons holstered.
“Leave,” he says flatly. “All of you—except Nikolai.”
The men nod and begin to file out. One of them—broad, dark-haired, built like a wall—is still standing behind Kellan, too close. Too long. Kellan senses it too.
