Page 228 of The Devil's Thorn
And I thought of my mother. Of the bracelet. Of the way Lorenzo had looked at it like it used to belong in another life. Maybe it had.
The silence between us wasn’t uncomfortable. It was… steady.
Rafael and I walked through the dim corridor, the warm glow of the chandeliers behind us casting elongated shadowsacross the marble floors. Each step echoed faintly, a slow rhythm beneath the thunder still rolling in my chest.
But I wasn’t unraveling. Not anymore.
I felt sharp. Awake. Like every inch of me was tuned to the shift in the air—the lingering questions, the weight of glances, and the ever-present feeling that nothing in this world came without a cost.
And Rafael? He was quiet beside me, hands tucked loosely in the pockets of his tailored black slacks, his shirt collar slightly open now that we were away from the crowd. But the tension in his frame remained. Controlled. Coiled.
Still shielding something.
I didn’t push him. Not yet. But I would.
My fingers brushed against the bracelet again. I wasn’t sure if I wanted to tear it off or hold it tighter.
The sound of footsteps ahead drew our attention. A man approached from around the corner, his presence cutting through the low murmur of the distant crowd. Broad shoulders, white hair slicked back, and a face aged not by time—but by power. The lines around his eyes were earned from too many deals made in rooms that never saw daylight. He wore his years like armor, not weakness.
His suit was dark green, crisp, and expensive, and a thick gold ring gleamed on his right hand. There was something theatrical about him, but nothing soft.
He slowed as he reached us, eyes locking immediately on Rafael. “Romanov,” he greeted, voice rich and unmistakably Irish, the kind that made you think of fireside whispers and backroom blood deals. “Didn’t think I’d catch you out of the shadows tonight.”
Rafael’s expression barely shifted. “Cormac.”
So that was his name.
Cormac O’Shea.
I didn’t know who he was, but I knew what he was. You could feel it. That quiet dominance. The weight of men who’d bled to get here and would bleed others to stay.
Cormac looked me over briefly but said nothing. His interest wasn’t leering. It was… assessing. Like he was checking off a box, deciding how valuable I was based on the tilt of my chin and the silence I held. I didn’t flinch.
He turned back to Rafael with a small grin. “You’re not getting any younger, my friend.”
Rafael’s brow ticked up just slightly. “That’s one way to start a conversation.”
“Just saying,” Cormac went on, voice light with amusement. “You’ve got power, respect, and blood on your hands, but no heir. No wife.” He gave a half-smile. “A man in your position needs someone to carry the name. Legacy doesn’t wait.”
I didn’t react outwardly. But the words crawled across my skin. Heir. Wife. Legacy. All of it spoken like I wasn’t standing right there.
Rafael didn’t so much as blink. “I’ve never been in a rush to fill a seat at my table for the sake of tradition.”
“Tradition keeps the wolves in line,” Cormac countered. “And alliances… well. They don’t form themselves.”
I felt my jaw tighten, but I said nothing. Rafael’s silence said more than I ever could.
Cormac gestured with his chin toward the crowd behind him. “My daughter’s here tonight.”
I didn’t follow his gaze, but I didn’t need to. I could already feel her presence through the weight of his words.
“She’s young,” Cormac said, voice lowering slightly. “Well-bred. Untouched by all this.” He waved vaguely toward the gathering like it was a disease.
Still, Rafael didn’t speak.
So Cormac kept going. “Her mother kept her far from this world, but she knows her place. She listens. She’d give you the peace you need. A clean start. An obedient legacy.”
My stomach turned—not because of the girl. She was a pawn. A ghost in silk probably raised on promises she never had a say in.
