Page 167 of The Devil's Thorn
“I’m pissed off,” I growled. “Don’t confuse the two.”
The ground trembled suddenly— A blast went off on the far end of the warehouse. Flames curled into the air. Screams followed. Yuri’s distraction worked.
“Now!” I barked, and Nikolai and I surged forward, sprinting through the smoke. My legs moved on instinct, adrenaline taking over, but every second sent another bolt of pain through my arm. I didn’t know how bad it was, only that it was wet, hot, and getting harder to hold my gun.
We rounded the stacks, and I could see the emergency door— A way out. We were close.
Then I saw him. Damyen. Standing near the far wall. Untouched. Calm. His hands were at his sides, but he wasn’t reaching for a weapon. He wasn’t panicking like the others.
He was watching. Like he knew exactly what would happen.
My feet slowed. Just for a second. That was all it took.
I stared at him through the haze of smoke and blood, a thousand calculations slamming into my skull.
Traitor.
But before I could raise my weapon, Nikolai grabbed my good arm and yanked me forward. “Rafael—move!”
“Let me go,” I snarled.
“Not now,” Nikolai snapped. “You’re bleeding out, and we’re outnumbered. We move. Now.”
I turned, eyes still on Damyen. He didn’t flinch. Didn’t blink. Just tilted his head like he was studying me.
The bastard had set the whole thing up.
“Let me go,” I said again, but this time my voice was colder. Quieter.
Yuri’s arm slammed across my chest from the side. “You can slit his throat later. Right now, we get out.”
And they pulled me. Out the side door, into the thick, humid Cartagena night.
The fire roared behind us as we ran. And all I could think of—was her.
The night air hit like a punch to the lungs—wet, thick, and heavy with smoke. My shirt clung to my back, the blood soaking through the fabric at my arm now cooling, sticking like a second skin.
My feet pounded the gravel, each step a little less sharp than the last, but not by much. The adrenaline was still rushing. Still buying me time. Still numbing the worst of it.
But I could feel it. The slow creep of weakness dragging its fingers up my side. The sting of the graze wasn’t the problem—it was the blood loss.
We ran down a narrow alley beside the docks, shadows stretching long against the low lights. I could hear Yuri breathing hard behind me, Nikolai just ahead, scanning every corner like a soldier who’d never left the battlefield.
“Stop,” Nikolai finally said, his voice sharp.
I slowed, chest heaving, sweat dripping into my eyes. We ducked into the side of a building—low, dark, abandoned—and I leaned against the wall, my palm smearing blood against the concrete.
Nikolai stepped in front of me. “Let me see it.”
“I’m fine,” I muttered.
“You’re bleeding through your shirt.”
“It’s a graze.”
“That doesn’t mean it won’t kill you if you keep acting like it doesn’t exist.”
Yuri stepped in beside him, wiping sweat off his forehead with the back of his hand, his eyes flicking to my arm. “He’s right. You look like shit, boss.”
