Page 98 of The Devil's Thorn
It’s quiet. But not empty. I feel the house before I fully take it in.
Stone beneath my heels. Dark floors. A tall ceiling with no chandelier. Just long, linear lights stretching across the hall like blades. The walls are all neutral—white and charcoal—but somehow it feels colder than black.
Like power was drained from the walls just to keep control in Rafael’s hands.
Paintings hang in perfect symmetry down the corridor—none with people. Just landscapes. Stark. Violent. A frozen lake. A forest stripped bare. A storm over a field that looks too much like war.
Everything here means something. Andnothingis an accident.
I start walking. Not quickly. I want to feel the silence.
The floor creaks once beneath my heel, but otherwise… not a sound. No footsteps above. No music. Just a hum beneath the surface, like the house itself is holding its breath.
My fingers brush against the banister as I ascend the stairs, tracing the polished wood. My other hand drifts near my hip, instinctively checking for the dagger still strapped to my thigh.
Still there. Still ready.
Even if I’m not here to use it. Unless I need to.
The hallway upstairs is darker than the one below. Only two sconces light the path, their golden glow washing over the smooth walls like fire that never touches.
I reach the door. First on the left. Closed. I stare at it for a second, heart steady, mind sharper than ever.
Rafael is behind that door. And whatever game he thinks he’s playing— I’ve already decided how it ends.
I stare at the door for a second longer. Just enough to remind myself that this isn’t his world. It’smine,too. Then I wrap my fingers around the cold handle and pull. No knock. No hesitation. Just silence and then—soundless tension, wrapping around me like smoke.
He’s standing behind the desk. Tall. Composed. Unmoving. Black dress pants hug his hips, the white shirt tucked neatly, sleeves rolled up to the elbows.
His forearms are corded muscle and ink—black lines and shapes that disappear beneath the cuff, wrapping his skin like a secret language I haven’t learned yet.
One hand rests against the window frame. He doesn’t turn right away. Of course he doesn’t. He’s the kind of man who controls even the silence.
“You’re late,” he says, voice low, almost lazy.
I shut the door behind me with a soft click. “I wasn’t aware I was expected to race here.”
“You were expected to arrive. You did.”
Then he turns. And I see the rest.
His shirt is unbuttoned at the top—just enough to reveal another peek of ink at his collarbone. Black and sharp andelegant, disappearing beneath the white cotton like a blade sheathed under silk.
His eyes find mine. Not rushed. Not aggressive. But deliberate. And all-consuming.
“Did he talk?”
“Alessio?” I say, slow. Controlled. “He practically confessed in a whisper.”
“You slipped something under his skin,” Rafael says, walking toward the desk now, eyes never leaving me. “I watched you.”
“Did you?”
“Your hand. Under the table. His eyes. His breath.” He pauses at the edge of the desk. “I know what seduction looks like,Isabella.”
I smile, stepping further into the room. “Then you know it’s not about touch. It’s about belief.”
“And what did he believe?”
