Page 34 of The Devil's Thorn
The table keeps talking.
Low murmurs pass between Mikhail and the silent man to his left—topics switching from trade routes to someone’s messy divorce in Prague. The woman by Rafael—who hasn’t looked at me once—laughs at all the wrong times, her laugh brittle and too sharp.
And Rafael?
He doesn’t speak. He listens.
One hand resting lightly on the glass. His other tapping a slow, thoughtful rhythm against his thigh.
He watches the table like a predator watching its own reflection.
I can feel his eyes drift toward me sometimes—subtle, fleeting—but I feel them. Not on my legs or the curve of my waist. Not like the others would.
He watches me like I’m a game he hasn’t decided how to play yet.
Then, just as the conversation dips into silence, Rafael sets down his glass and leans slightly forward.
“Let’s play a hand.”
The table stills.
Mikhail raises an eyebrow. “Poker?”
Rafael gives a slow nod, that half-smile curling his mouth again.
“No stakes tonight,” he says. “Just reflex.”
The silent man shifts slightly, his first real sign of interest. The woman beside him perks up, though I catch the flicker of discomfort behind her eyes.
He’s shifting the room.
Testingthem.
And me.
Then his gaze turns toward me—this time openly—and his next words come in a language that feels like ice across my skin.
“?? ?????? ?????? ? ??????”Do you know how to play poker?
My chest tightens, not from panic, but from the precision of the strike.
He’s not just speaking Russian. He’s telling me hesees me.
And now he’s watching to see if I’ll blink.
I meet his gaze, steady. My lips part, the words sliding out like they were born inside me.
“??. ????.”Yes. I do.
A breathless pause.
Rafael’s expression doesn’t shift, but I see it—the faintest flicker of approval in the depth of his eyes.
He leans back again, switching easily into English.
“Then stand behind me,” he says, voice smooth, like it was always meant to sound like a command. “Be my shadow.”
Not just a server now.
