Page 126 of The Devil's Thorn
I sink the blade into his torso. Low. Left side. Straight through soft muscle and intent.
His body goes rigid. His eyes jerk open, shock slamming into him a second too late. I’m still close, still kissing him—until I’m not. Until I pull away, hold his gaze, and drive the knife in deeper.
“I always finish what I start,” I whisper, breathless.
He chokes on a gasp. His hands scramble at my arms, slipping against the blood now spilling over my fingers. I keep my eyes on his, calm and steady as I twist the blade once—just enough to make itcount.
Then I pull it free. The sound is sickening. Wet. Final.
He crumples backward with a sharp gasp, hitting the tiled floor hard, a guttural sound tearing from his throat as he clutches the wound. Blood seeps fast through his shirt, spilling onto the tiles like red ink across a blank page.
“You… fucking…” he wheezes, teeth clenched.
I crouch beside him for just a second, voice cold and clean. “You should’ve pulled me closer instead of trying to show off, Viktor.”
I straighten and step back, already reaching for the lock. He groans again as I unlock the door and rip it open, bloodied dagger clutched in my right hand, red smeared across my fingerslike war paint. My pulse pounds as I take one quick glance down the hallway—empty.
I raise my hand to my ear, clicking on the mic. “Kellan,” I whisper harshly, breath rapid. “He’s planning a hit. It’s happeningtonight. I stabbed him, he’s down but conscious—some of his men are inside already—get ready.”
No answer. Just static for half a beat—then Kellan’s voice, sharp. “Where are you?!”
“Heading back in.”
And I move—fast, heels clacking against the floor, dress still flawless save for the blood that’s now dripping from the tip of the blade in my hand. I don’t stop to clean it. I don’t pause to think.
I step through the door and back into the chaos of the casino. And I’m not done yet.
The music still plays overhead—bass pounding, lights flickering—but something’s shifted. People notice the blood on my hands, the dagger clutched tight in my grip, and the rippling tension that radiates off my body like heat from a flame.
Eyes widen. Gasps ring out. But I don’t stop.
My heels hit the floor hard and fast, the click echoing louder than the music in my ears as I start moving—no,running—toward Rafael’s table.
He sees me before I reach him. He’s leaning back in his chair, cigar forgotten in his hand, drink half-lifted to his lips. His eyes lock on mine, trailing down to the blood on my arms, the crimson-streaked dagger in my hand. I see the exact second something cold flashes through his gaze.
He stands fast, chair scraping back. “Isabella?—”
I don’t let him finish. Because something behind him—somethingoutside—catches my attention.
The windows behind his table rise tall and wide, offering a perfect view of the building across the street. And there—barely visible but unmistakably there—is a silhouette. Perched. Focused. Still.
Sniper.
I know the signs. I’ve been the one behind the scope before.
And then—Red.A faint glint of fabric. A glimmer in the light.
A mark.
My breath catches. “Down!” I scream, voice tearing through my throat as I drop the dagger and launch forward.
My body collides with Rafael’s, knocking him off balance just as the shot pierces the glass.
The world erupts. The bullet slices clean through where his heart would’ve been—shattering the crystal glass, embedding into the wood just behind him.
I land hard against him as we crash to the floor. Screams ripple out across the casino. Chaos explodes like gunpowder thrown on fire. Viktor’s men leap to their feet, drawing weapons. Dealers duck. Patrons scream, running in all directions.
Rafael grips my arms tight, flipping us so he’s above me, shielding me automatically.
