Page 103 of The Devil's Thorn
He moves then. Not fast—but with purpose.
He comes to my side, not standing this time, but sitting on the desk beside me. Close. Too close.
But I don’t shift. I don’t lean away. If anything, I leanin.
His gaze drops—slowly—to the slit in my dress, then back up to meet my eyes, asking a question he doesn’t say aloud.
And I let him.
His hand moves to the fabric. Fingertips trailing the edge of the slit, pushing slowly—inch by inch—until it reveals the leather sheath against my thigh.
The dagger glints faintly in the low light. His fingers brush the strap, then glide beneath it, curling around the hilt.
He slides it free in one clean, silent motion. The cool metal flashes between us as he lifts it to his line of sight, turning it slowly in his hand.
“Italian steel,” he murmurs.
“Custom made.”
“You carry it like it belongs to you.”
“It does.”
He glances at me then, a flicker of something unreadable dancing behind his lashes. “And yet you haven’t used it.”
“Not everything sharp has to draw blood to prove it’s dangerous.”
He laughs softly under his breath, dragging a thumb along the blade’s edge. “You’re full of clever little lines,Isabella.”
“Or maybe you’re just finally listening.”
He rests the blade flat against his palm for a moment longer, then turns it in his fingers—offering it back to me.
I don’t take it immediately. I let our eyes hold. Let the quiet between us stretch taut and electric.
Then I reach forward, slow, and slide the dagger from his hand—my fingers brushing against his palm just long enough to feel the warmth there.
I don’t sheath it yet. I let it stay in my lap, exposed. A reminder. A promise.
“You’re dangerous,” he says, low.
“Only to the ones who deserve it.”
He leans in, just slightly. “And who decides who that is?”
I smile again. This time, it reaches my eyes. “Me.”
The moment lingers—thick with unspoken things. His voice still echoing in my head.
You’re dangerous.
So is he. But I knew that the second I saw him through the scope of my rifle.
Rafael stands. No warning, no shift in tone—just fluid, sharp motion like a blade being sheathed.
He grabs both of our glasses from the desk and turns slightly. “Come,” he says. “There’s something I want you to see.”
I blink once. Not at the words. But at the tone. Low. Even. Almostcasual.But with Rafael, casual is just control in disguise.
