Page 160 of The Devil's Thorn

I slid into the backseat, Nikolai beside me, Yuri across. The door shut, sealing us in. She’d be there.

And I had no fucking clue what would happen when she walked in.

The city passed in a blur of humid lights and shadowed alleyways, the kind that always whispered secrets to anyone who knew how to listen. My fingers drummed against the leather seat, the movement slow, calculated. I wasn’t thinking about the route. Or the meeting. Or the cartel. Not really.

I was thinking about her. The red thread. The dagger. That fucking tattoo inked into the softest part of her skin by someone who wasn’t me.

“Touch her again like you did last night,” I said quietly, not even looking at him, “and I’ll carve your own damn tattoo into your ribs.”

Yuri let out a low whistle beside me, not the least bit intimidated. “You want her branded? Do it yourself next time.”

I didn’t laugh. “I don’t share what I haven’t even taken yet.”

“That’s rich,” Yuri muttered, sipping from a flask he pulled out of his jacket. “Coming from a man who pretends he doesn’t want her, but watches her like she’s his next breath.”

“I watch everything,” I said. “That’s how I stay alive.”

“Is that what you’re doing with her?” He raised an eyebrow. “Staying alive?”

I glanced at him now, eyes sharp. “I haven’t decided yet.”

Nikolai didn’t say anything from the passenger seat, but his silence was always weighted. Calculated. If he had thoughts, they’d come out when they mattered.

“She’s dangerous,” Yuri added, tone a little more serious now. “You know that, right? That look in her eyes? The one that never blinks? She’s not afraid to bury someone and then sleep like a baby.”

“I’m counting on it,” I muttered.

“Just wondering when she’ll decide to bury you,” Yuri grinned, eyes glinting.

I smirked. “She won’t.”

“You sure?”

“She hasn’t yet.”

That silenced him, if only for a moment.

The car curved along the final stretch of road, tires crunching gravel as the headlights bathed the gates of the abandoned villa we were using for the meeting in harsh white. The villa loomed like something out of a ghost story—stone and shadow and secrets crawling along its walls. It was old. Hidden. Perfect for a gathering that required silence and the absence of memory.

And then I saw her. Standing under the soft orange glow of one of the security lights. Black fitted pants. A tucked-in silk top. The faintest trace of red still braided into her hair.

Kellan and Ash flanked her, tense and watchful. Their posture was military—protective but sharp. Not relaxed. Never relaxed.

But she was the storm they were standing behind. Still. Controlled. Unreadable. Her eyes found the car before it even stopped moving. Mine never left her.

Not until the door clicked open, and I stepped out, the weight of the coming night settling across my shoulders like war.

And just like that— Game on.

The hot and humid air of Cartagena hit me like a slow punch to the gut. The sun had dipped just below the horizon, bleeding a final strip of gold across the sky, but the heat lingered—clinging to my skin, soaking into the collar of my shirt.

I stepped out first. Nikolai and Yuri followed close behind, speaking low in Russian behind me, but my attention wasn’t on them. It locked instantly on the figure standing by the edge of the lot—Isabella.

My steps were steady as I walked toward her. I didn’t rush. Never had to.

“You’re early,” I said, voice cool, curious.

She didn’t look at me—at least, not right away. Her eyes stayed on the building ahead, sharp and unreadable. “Didn’t want to be late,” she said simply.