Page 93 of The Devil's Thorn
The music bleeds into the background. Muted strings. Velvet laughter. Too many secrets in too little space.
The air is heavy with cigars, perfume, old money, and newer sins. I walk slowly. Not toward anyone. Not toward anything. Just… through.
Because I’m not done listening.Listeningis where the real weapons are.
Alessio’s voice still echoes faintly in my mind. His eager confession. His stupid, shaky breath when I closed his hand around the blade. He’ll think twice before bragging again.
He’ll think of me every time he’s reminded of fear. Good.
Kellan’s voice buzzes in my ear.
“You’ve got someone tracking you on the far side. Tall. Grey suit. Been watching since you left the bar.”
I don’t react. Not outwardly. My expression doesn’t shift. My stride doesn’t slow. I can’t answer him, not without raising suspicion, but he knows that.
Instead, I take another turn around the room, casually reaching for another glass of champagne from a passing server. I keep my eyes forward, walking the edge of the crowd like I belong there—because I do.
I am the silence they forget to fear.
A man steps into my periphery, matching my pace until I either acknowledge him… or let it turn into something more noticeable.
I glance at him from the corner of my eye. He’s tall. Early thirties. Wearing a perfectly tailored grey suit. Slicked-back dark hair. Expensive watch. Confident without arrogance.
He looks like he belongs. But I’ve never seen him before. Which makes him a problem.
He offers a soft smile. Not too bold. Just enough. “Didn’t mean to interrupt,” he says, tone light, accent faint but present—Mediterranean. “You just looked like you could use company.”
I don’t answer right away. I just raise my glass to my lips and sip once. Measured. Controlled. Then I look at him. “And you looked like someone who doesn’t usually ask.”
He chuckles. “Touché.”
“Who are you?”
“A friend,” he says. “To some people. Not to others.”
“That’s vague.”
“It’s honest.”
He holds out a hand casually as we stop near one of the tall windows overlooking the courtyard. “Leo.”
I glance at his hand. Then back at his face. I don’t take it. “Natasha.”
His smile twitches. “Beautiful name.”
“Common enough in these rooms.”
“Not the way you wear it.”
He says it like a compliment. Like he’s flirting. But there’s something in his eyes—something not entirely interested in my body.
Something more curious than eager. Andthatmakes my skin tighten.
“So, Leo,” I say, tilting my head. “What do you do when you’re not charming strangers at someone else’s party?”
“A little of everything,” he replies. “Mostly boring things. I read. I drink. I listen. And once in a while… I meet someone interesting.”
“Do they usually tell you anything worth hearing?”
