Page 65 of The Devil's Thorn
My spine goes rigid. My mouth dries. And as I begin to turn—slowly, too slowly—my thoughts spiral like a storm.
He knew.He set this up.And I walked straight into it.
The cold press of metal doesn’t waver against the back of my skull. The sound of my own breathing fills the silence—too loud, too jagged.
My pulse thrums in my throat, my hand still clutching the gun aimed at the man in front of me.
But I don’t pull the trigger. Because Rafael already has one on me.
“Put it down,” he says behind me, voice low, deliberate. “Nice and slow.”
I freeze. His tone isn’t angry. It’s worse. It’scurious.
Like he’s just confirmed something he already suspected.
I lower the gun slowly, fingers tightening once before I let it slip from my grip and fall to the floor with a soft metallic thud.
Rafael moves behind me, lowering his own weapon—but not before he steps forward and grazes his fingers along the torn fabric on my arm.
The pain flares beneath his touch, sharp and hot. He glances at the blood, his voice colder now.
“He touched you.”
It’s not a question. Before I can answer, he looks past me and speaks to someone else.
“Take him.”
The man I fought barely has time to react before two of Rafael’s men appear, grabbing him and yanking him to his feet. He starts to struggle—but not much. Not after the way I broke him.
“You’re dead,” the man spits through the mask, trying to throw a final threat in my direction.
Rafael lifts a hand. One of his men slams the guy’s head into the doorframe on the way out. He doesn’t speak again.
I take a step back, my breath finally starting to slow, but my chest still tight. The pain in my arm pulses now—sharp andwarm. The cut isn’t deep, but it’s messy. Blood streaks down my forearm, soaking into the side of my blouse.
Still, I don’t look at the wound. I look at Rafael. His eyes are fixed on me. But not with surprise. With confirmation. He saw what he needed to see.
“You’re not a waitress,” he says quietly.
I don’t answer. Because there’s no use pretending anymore.
He steps toward me, gaze locked on mine.
“Who are you working for?”
My jaw tightens. “No one.”
He raises an eyebrow. “You expect me to believe that?”
“I don’t care what you believe.”
That earns the barest curl of his lips. Not a smile. Not quite.
“Natasha, huh?”
I stay still. Silent.
“Tell me,” he murmurs, eyes narrowing. “How long have you been lying to me?”
