Page 172 of The Devil's Thorn
I closed the cabinet slowly and exhaled through my nose. This wasn’t new. But it felt different.
I returned to the living room and stopped in the doorway, the med kit tight in my grip.
He hadn’t moved much. One arm slung across the back of the couch, the other now limp at his side. His fingers twitched slightly, his face tight. Pale, but not ghostly. His breathing wasn’t labored, but I saw the tension in his jaw, the stiffness in his movements.
Still holding on to control like it was the only thing tethering him to the ground. But it was his eyes that made me pause. Dark. Watchful. Like a wolf bleeding on the snow, still daring anyone to come close.
I didn’t speak at first. I just stood there and let myself look at him. Really look. And it hit me—this man, this monster, was still human. Flesh and bone and blood like anyone else. Just more ruthless about protecting it.
I stepped forward slowly. “You look like shit,” I said, setting the kit down on the table.
He gave me a humorless grin. “I’ve had worse nights.”
“Bet you say that to all the women you bleed in front of.”
He laughed under his breath, the sound cut short by a grimace. “Only the ones who keep threatening to kill me.”
I knelt beside him, opening the kit. “You’re lucky,” I said quietly, pulling on the gloves. “I’m only helping so I can be the one to kill you myself.”
He smirked. “Romantic.”
“No,” I said, meeting his eyes. “Strategic.”
Something flickered across his face. Not amusement. Not quite admiration either. Something darker. Quieter. “I like you better like this,” he said.
I arched a brow. “Bleeding?”
“No.” He leaned in slightly, voice dropping. “Unmasked.”
I froze. But only for a second. Then I looked away and snapped open the bottle of alcohol.
“Show me the wound,” I muttered.
He hesitated. Of course he did. Too proud. Too in control to ask for help even now.
But when his hand twitched and he tried to reach for the buttons, I saw it—his fingers fumbled. Slower than they should’ve been. Weaker.
“Goddamn it,” I muttered under my breath. Before he could argue, I moved. Stepping closer, huffing out a breath as I batted his hands away and started fumbling with his shirt myself.
He went still. But he didn’t stop me.
The tension between us stretched, sharp and electric. My fingers brushed against the warm skin of his abdomen, the fabric sticking to the blood. I didn’t look at his face. Because if I did… I wasn’t sure what I’d see.
Wasn’t sure what I’d feel. And I couldn’t afford that.
Not with Rafael bleeding on my couch. Not when I wasn’t sure if I wanted to stitch him up—or open him further.
His shirt peeled away from his skin like it was clinging to him. Dried blood made the fabric stiff, but there was fresh redbeneath it—darker, wetter. The kind that made my stomach tighten even though I’d seen worse.
I finally got it off and dropped the ruined shirt beside the couch, the sound soft against the wood.
My eyes lifted to his, and for a breath, I couldn’t look away. There was something unguarded in his expression. Not soft—he didn’t have that in him. But raw. Stillness draped over him like a second skin, but it didn’t hide the pulse ticking hard at his jaw, or the tension running through his muscles like coiled wire.
I reached for the kit, but his hand caught mine. His good one. Rough fingers wrapped around my wrist—not tight, not possessive. Just… still. Firm. Like he was holding something fragile without meaning to.
“Do you even know what the hell you’re doing?” he asked, voice low and edged with something close to amusement, but not quite.
I didn’t flinch. I narrowed my eyes and pulled my wrist gently from his grasp. “I’ve stitched up worse,” I said. “Try having to cauterize a bullet wound with vodka and a lighter while holding your best friend down with one hand.”
