Page 114 of The Devil's Thorn
The room still smells like her. Spiced perfume and smoke. And something wilder beneath it.
I trace the edge of her glass with a fingertip, watching the trail it leaves in the condensation. The pill has long dissolved. A phantom threat turned memory.
And yet she still didn’t wake when she should have.
I know what I gave her. Inevermiscalculate doses. But she stayed under longer. Too long. And that bothers me.
More than it should.
I pull out my phone and dial. It rings once. Twice.
“Yeah?” Nikolai answers, clipped, half-expecting something explosive.
“She didn’t wake up when she should’ve.”
“How long?”
“Over an hour.”
Another beat of silence.
I hear the click of something metal on his end—probably loading a mag, maybe just his teeth against the edge of a bottlecap. He’s always moving.
“You’re sure about the dosage?”
I exhale, sharp. “You’re asking me that?”
“Fair. But yeah, that’s odd.”
“She should’ve stirred after forty. Fifty max.”
“Could be adrenaline. Stress response. Body might’ve metabolized it slower.”
“She didn’tlookstressed.”
“Doesn’t mean she wasn’t. You said she slipped something in your drink. Think she came in relaxed after that?”
My jaw tightens. “No. She was calculated. Playful. Controlled.”
“You’re describing yourself, you know.”
“I’m aware.”
There’s a stretch of silence. Not tense. Just thoughtful.
Then I speak again. “Kellan and Ash showed up. Guns drawn.”
“Of course they did.”
“Didn’t shoot me, though.”
“Shame.”
“They looked like they wanted to.”
“They still might. Sooner or later.”
“They took her with them.”
