Page 136 of The Devil's Thorn
His words are sharp, but not cruel. Just honest.
“You came anyway.”
He shrugs, eyes narrowing slightly. “I owed you that much.”
A beat passes between us. Thick. Tense. A dance of silence and heat neither of us is willing to lead.
“You don’t like being owed,” I say.
“No. I don’t.”
“Then why come?”
He watches me for a long second. “Because in my world, saving someone’s life means something. Doesn’t matter if I trust you. Doesn’t even matter if I like you.”
“You don’t?” I raise a brow.
His eyes gleam with something unreadable. “I haven’t decided yet.”
I push off the counter, slowly walking toward him, but stopping short of the couch. I don’t sit. I just stand there, letting the silence build again. Letting him feel the questions I’m not ready to ask. Not yet.
His gaze lifts to meet mine, slow and unblinking. “You dragged me here just to look at me?”
“No,” I murmur. “But I knew you’d come just the same.”
He leans back deeper into the couch like he’s trying to see right through me. “Careful,kisa.That kind of arrogance will get you in trouble.”
I smile, sharp and unrepentant. “Only if I care about the consequences.”
The air stretches between us again. Tight. Tense. But not explosive. And neither of us moves. Because this is the game. And neither one of us plays to lose.
His body sinks deeper into the couch like this is just another night, just another game. One hand draped over the backrest, but it’s the way he looks like he belongs there. The way he leans like he doesn’t have a care in the world, and still somehow manages to carry the weight of one.
His shirt pulls slightly as he moves. The fabric bunches, riding up just enough to expose the edge of skin.
And there it is.
A scar. Thick. Pale. Ugly. Jagged at the ends like it wasn’t clean or fast—like it wasn’t meant to be.
My eyes catch on it for a second too long. And he notices.
He doesn’t shift to cover it. He doesn’t smirk. He just watches me watch it. Then finally, he speaks. “Ugly, isn’t it?”
I blink, drag my gaze back to his. But I don’t answer. I walk around the couch instead, slow, calm, and lower myself into the chair opposite him. Crossing one leg over the other, I rest my elbow on the armrest and let my chin fall into my palm.
My voice is quieter this time. “How’d you get it?”
He tilts his head at me, the faintest flicker of amusement dancing at the corner of his mouth. “You ask a lot of questions.”
“You came to my home.”
He leans forward just enough for the shadows to catch in the hollows of his face. “Fair.” Then he leans back again, arm sliding lazily over the top of the couch. “My mother stabbed me when I was nine.”
The words are said so flatly, so easily, that for a second I think I misheard him.
“She aimed for my heart.” He lifts two finger and taps on the scar. “Still bled like a bitch.”
My stomach coils, but I keep my expression still. Cold. “You said your mother?”
