Page 192 of The Devil's Thorn
He let out a quiet, humorless breath as he leaned in, hand sliding beneath my jaw, holding it—almost gently.
“This meanseverything,Isabella,” he said. “Because you let me have you. Because you wanted it. Don’t lie to me now.”
I glared at him, my vision blurring with heat—rage, lust, humiliation. “I hate you.”
He grinned, a dangerous, wicked grin that carved into his face like a promise. “No,” he whispered, slamming into me again. “Youneedme.”
His pace grew wilder now, less precise. My breath caught as I felt the change—he was close. And for the first time, the cracks in his armor showed. The subtle tremble in his grip, the way his head dropped forward, growling my name like a curse between his teeth.
“Fucking mine,” he rasped into my neck. “You’ll never let anyone else touch you like this. Not after this.”
I clenched my eyes shut, swallowing back a sound I didn’t want him to hear. And when he stilled—when his entire body tensed and broke against mine—it was brutal. Possessive. Final.
And even through my haze of fury, pride, and confusion… a whisper of satisfaction threaded through my ribs like poison.
Because I broke him too.
His weight shifted off me, and the air in the room finally filled my lungs again. I didn’t move. I couldn’t.
My wrists still ached—tight and tender—while my pulse beat too hard in places I didn’t want to acknowledge. The silence pressed down, broken only by the sound of him grabbing his pants from the nearby chair.
I turned my head, watching as Rafael stood in the low golden light. He didn’t say anything, didn’t look at me as he fastened the button, as if the fire between us hadn’t just torn the world apart.
When he walked back toward me I was utterly unsure about his next move.
He stopped at the edge of the bed, then reached for my wrists. His fingers were careful now—annoyingly so—as he undid the leather straps that bound me.
“You’re welcome,” he muttered, no inflection. Just his usual roughness wrapped in gravel.
I blinked at him, then slowly pushed myself up onto my elbows. My gaze dropped to my wrists—red, irritated, and already blooming into something purple beneath the skin. Bruises. Of course.
“You’re a bastard,” I said quietly.
He didn’t flinch. “You didn’t say stop.”
I scowled, teeth clenching, but the heat in my chest wasn’t just rage.
He tossed something onto the bed. One of his shirts. Oversized, black, and warm from his skin. “Put this on before someone tries to walk in,” he said. It should’ve sounded cold. Dismissive.
But it didn’t. It sounded like a warning.
I snatched it up anyway, pulling it over my head. The scent hit me immediately—spice, smoke, him. And for some stupid reason, it made my chest squeeze.
He watched me silently for a second, then turned and disappeared into the bathroom, the sound of water running a second later.
I sat there, dazed. The walls of his suite glowed dimly under the light by the nightstand. My clothes were somewhere across the floor. My wrists throbbed. My legs felt like lead.
And Rafael Romanov… He was in my blood now. A storm I hadn’t planned for. One I couldn’t outrun.
I lay back on the bed, staring at the ceiling, the softness of his shirt brushing my thighs.
What the hell was I doing?
What the hell had I just let him do?
And why, despite the war still raging inside me, did I not feel even a shred of regret?
I didn’t move. The ceiling above me was silent. Still. But inside my chest… everything pulsed too loud. Too real.
