Page 50 of The Devil's Thorn
I grab my coat from the hook and pause at the door.
“Anna?”
She lifts her head.
“Thank you. For… just being here.”
A smile tugs at her lips. “Of course, milaya. Go before you’re late again.”
I step out into the hall, pulling the door shut behind me.
As I descend the stairs, the warmth starts to fade. Because the second I step back outside, I’m not justmeanymore.
I’m a girl with a mission. A girl walking into a den. But for now? I let the warmth stay with me a little longer.
The walk home is cold, but I barely feel it.
The city stretches around me, tall and golden, buzzing faintly with life that has nothing to do with mine. Neon signs flicker above restaurants and storefronts. Cars blur past with headlights like moving ghosts. Somewhere, a siren wails in the distance.
But inside me?
Silence.
The kind that feels like something’s coming. Not loud. Not obvious. Just… inevitable.
I wrap my coat tighter and keep walking, my boots clicking softly against the pavement. I don’t take the main road. I never do. I take the alleys I know. The shortcuts no one thinks to use.
The ones where I don’t have to pretend.
When I reach the entrance of my building, I nod at the doorman and step into the lobby, the warm air curling around me like a temporary shield.
The elevator hums softly as it rises.
Floor thirty-five.
Penthouse.
The second the doors slide open and I step into my apartment, I exhale like I’ve been holding my breath since I left Anna’s.
The space is dark and quiet, just how I left it. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlook the city, the sky streaked in fading pinks and blues.
My heels echo faintly across the marble floors as I head toward the bedroom.
I don’t turn on the lights. I just move by memory.
My uniform hangs neatly where I left it—black pencil skirt, tailored black vest over a crisp white blouse, and the slim waist apron Rafael insists all female servers wear in the high-stakes VIP section of the casino.
I stare at it for a moment longer than usual. It’s simple. Elegant. Sharp. But every time I wear it, I feel like I’m stepping into armor made of silk and thread.
A role.
A lie.
But one I’ve perfected.
I peel off my clothes and head into the bathroom, washing my face in cold water before brushing out my hair, pulling it into a neat low ponytail.
Dark brown strands. Light brown eyes.
