Page 158 of The Devil's Thorn

“You really let him do this, huh?” he asked. “Or did he just get lucky?”

I didn’t answer right away. I just tilted my head so the thread dangled freely beside my cheek. “He told me what it meant.”

Rafael’s gaze darkened. “You let a man braid blood into your hair, and you stayed?”

I turned fully toward him then, letting the music and the madness blur into the background. “You let men bleed for you every day and call it loyalty. At least mine didn’t need a gun.”

He studied me—eyes unreadable, chest rising slowly like he was weighing my answer against some scale only he could see.

Then he leaned in again, this time closer. His mouth found the side of my neck—hot, unhurried. A kiss. A bite. Pressure and heat all at once, making my breath hitch before I could stop it. His fingers dug into my waist, not hard enough to bruise, but enough to remind me that he was there.

That hewasn’tanyone else.

“You’re mine, whether you like it or not,” he whispered, lips brushing over my skin. “And no blood thread will change that.”

I didn’t answer.

Because my pulse was beating too fast. Because my body was too aware of his. Because no matter how much I told myself this was all a game—I didn’t know which of us was winning anymore.

His hand didn’t move, but it didn’t need to. It rested at the base of my spine, his thumb brushing the line of skin where my dress dipped too low and his palm pressed just enough to remind me that he was there. That hecouldmove. That he waschoosingnot to. For now.

Rafael said nothing as he stepped around me, slow, deliberate. His presence was gravity—I felt it when he circled, my breath tightening, my pulse slowing then surging again whenhe stopped in front of me. And when he nudged my knees apart with his thigh, pressing himself into the space between them, my stomach coiled like a loaded spring.

I hated that I didn’t push him away.

I hated that the scent of him—smoke and spice and something darker—made my eyes flutter before I caught myself. My fingers gripped the edge of the bar behind me, grounding myself, because if I let go, I wasn’t sure what I’d do.

He leaned in slowly, his hands bracing the bar on either side of me now, caging me in without touching me anywhere else. His breath skimmed the shell of my ear before his lips moved.

“I’ll give you what you want, Isabella…”His voice was silk over steel, low enough that no one else could hear.“But not when you’re marked by another man’s hands—even if it’s just ink.”

My heart stuttered.

He didn’t mean Yuri’s touch. He meant the tattoo. The red thread. The dagger.

The dagger that, ironically, symbolizedhimmore than it ever could anyone else.

He pulled back, just enough to meet my eyes. His expression unreadable. His gaze dropped for a beat to my lips, lingering there, then lower—to the pulse in my neck that betrayed me with every hammering beat.

And then he stepped away.

Just like that. Gone.

The space he left felt colder than it should’ve.

I didn’t move. Couldn’t. My body was still wired, my thoughts tangled somewhere between fury and fire, shame and desire. He didn’t take anything from me—but he left behind something I couldn’t shake.

Control.

He had it again. And I hated him for that.

But I hated myself more for letting him.

My hand lifted automatically to the braid in my hair, the one Yuri had twisted the red thread into. A war braid, he’d called it. But it felt more like a brand now. A challenge. A warning.

I stared across the pool where Rafael now stood, speaking to someone like nothing happened. Like he hadn’t just lit every nerve in my body and then walked away as if it hadn’t meant a thing.

The bastard.