Page 15 of The Devil's Thorn

The SUV slows outside my building—tall, sleek glass, the kind that reflects the stars even when they’re hidden behind clouds. Doormen in pressed uniforms. Cameras angled just right. The illusion of safety wrapped in luxury.

Kellan pulls to the curb, puts the car in park.

“Want us to check the perimeter?” he asks.

“No need,” I say, unbuckling. “I’m fine.”

Ash doesn’t speak. He just watches me like he always does, eyes never soft, never tired.

As I reach for the door, Kellan adds, “Tomorrow… things shift. You walk into that place again, it’s not recon anymore. It’s war.”

I pause. Then look over my shoulder.

“I’ve been at war my whole life.”

And I step out, heels hitting the curb with a quiet click.

The lobby smells like white marble and chilled air. A concierge nods at me. I ignore him.

Upstairs, my penthouse is just as I left it—clean, quiet, untouched. Floor-to-ceiling windows with the whole city laid out below me, glittering like broken glass.

The door clicks shut behind me with a sound too loud for the quiet that lives inside this place.

My apartment is dark, lit only by the scattered city lights pouring through the massive windows. They cast long shadows across marble floors and minimal furniture, every edge sharp, untouched. This space isn’t warm. It’s not home.

It’s a façade. Just like me.

I walk across the open living room, shedding layers as I go—my scarf, my coat, the tension in my shoulders, even if only a little. I toe off my heels near the window and let my bare feet meet the cold floor. The cold always helps. It keeps the fire under my skin from burning too loud.

I stop in front of the glass wall and stare out at the city, glittering like it doesn’t know how many monsters walk its streets.

Or maybe it does. Maybe that’s why it glows—hoping the light can hide the rot underneath.

My reflection stares back at me in the glass. My features are soft in this light, almost delicate. It’s a lie. There’s nothing delicate left. Just sharp edges dressed in skin.

The woman in the glass isNatasha Orlovanow. She has grace in her spine and silence in her mouth. She’s calm. Elegant. She doesn’t bleed when you cut her.

But I still do.

I press my hand to the glass and exhale.

You’re inside now,I remind myself.He’s close. All you have to do is watch. Listen. Wait. And when the time is right… you’ll finish what you started.

And yet… I can still feel it.

His presence.

Even now, far away, the memory of him lingers in my bones like a bruise I can’t touch. I didn’t even see him today, but Ifelthim. I felt the weight of his world pressing down on mine.

The men who orbit him are dangerous. But he’s something else.

Something colder.

Something I haven’t defined yet.

And that scares me more than I’ll admit.

I turn away from the window and walk toward the kitchen. Everything here is sleek—black counters, clean lines, untouchedappliances. I never cook. I barely eat. Food feels… trivial when your hunger is for something deeper.