Page 194 of The Devil's Thorn
I wasn’t sure I wanted it to be.
The silence stretched between us, heavy and thick, like the lingering humidity in the air after a storm. I stayed on my side, lying on Rafael’s bed, the warmth of his shirt draped over my skin, my bare legs tangled in the sheets.
My wrists still carried the faint imprint of leather, and though the sting had dulled, the memory hadn’t. I could still feel the weight of him. The way his eyes pinned me like a predator who didn’t know whether he wanted to devour or protect.
I stared up at the ceiling, every breath shallow as if the air in this room belonged to him.
He lay next to me, not touching, not saying a word. One arm bent under his head, his torso bare, chest rising and falling in a rhythm that should’ve comforted me—but didn’t. It only reminded me of what I’d just done with someone I swore to never trust.
The devil was in bed with me. And I let him in.
My voice came low, raw. “You always like this after?”
His head turned slightly toward me, his eyes catching mine. “After?”
“You know,” I said, keeping my voice even, “after you screw your enemies.”
The corner of his mouth twitched, like the start of a smirk, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “You’re not my enemy right now, Isabella.”
“No?” I rolled onto my side, watching him. “What am I then?”
He didn’t answer. That silence of his—carefully constructed, sharp-edged—cut deeper than words.
“I’m not yours,” I added, quieter this time. “Don’t forget that.”
He let out a soft exhale, but there was no laugh in it. “You’re not anyone’s. That’s the problem.”
My chest tightened at that. He wasn’t wrong. And that’s what made it worse.
We didn’t speak for a while. The room felt still, but not peaceful. Like the pause before a gunshot.
I turned onto my back again, pulling the sheets tighter around my waist, his shirt riding up on my thighs. My eyes drifted to him, slowly, as if I were trying to memorize something I didn’t want to admit I’d remember.
The shadows of the room played across the ridges of his stomach, the bruises from the ambush still fresh, still angry on his skin. It should’ve made him look weaker. It didn’t.
I swallowed hard, my gaze climbing to his face. His jaw was tense, lips parted slightly as he stared at the ceiling like it held all the answers neither of us had the guts to ask.
And still, I looked at him. I didn’t know what I was searching for. But something told me he’d destroy me long before I ever found it.
Thelight wassoft when it touched my face. Warm. Too warm. The kind that didn’t belong to my sheets or my bed or anything familiar. For a moment, I stayed still, blinking against the morning haze, my limbs heavy and slow to respond. The air smelled faintly like clean soap and something darker—him.
Then it hit me. Last night.
My pulse kicked in my throat, and I sat up, the movement sharp and jarring. The silk sheets slipped down my body, and my eyes dropped to the marks lining my wrists—red, raw, beginning to bruise.
A sharp breath left me. Not in pain. Not even in regret. Just awareness.
I pulled the covers tighter around myself and looked around. His room. His space. Not mine.
And then I saw him—Rafael Romanov, already dressed in a dark button-down, sleeves rolled to his elbows, standing near the open balcony doors. The breeze tousled his hair slightly as he stared out, unreadable as always. One hand in his pocket. The other holding a half-empty glass of water.
He didn’t look at me when he spoke. “You’re awake.”
My throat was dry. “Observant.”
Only then did his gaze flick to me over his shoulder, and when it did, I noticed something else—my suitcases, all of them, neatly lined up by the closet.
My spine straightened. “Why the hell is all my stuff here?” I asked, voice still hoarse from sleep, or maybe from everything else.
