Page 170 of The Devil's Thorn

Anna’s familiar face blinked in and out slightly on the FaceTime screen as the signal fought to hold. Her long, silvery hair was down tonight, the kind of soft, gentle waves that reminded me of bedtime stories and warm tea. She was in her kitchen, the same pale blue tiles behind her that I’d seen a hundred times. Only tonight, something in her expression was… different.

“I couldn’t sleep,” she said softly, her fingers curled around a delicate mug. “Just felt… restless.”

I shifted the phone slightly on my chest and looked at her through the screen. “You? Restless? That’s a first.”

She smiled, but it didn’t reach her eyes. “You always know when something’s off, don’t you?”

“I try,” I murmured, my voice low.

Anna looked at me like she could see every part of me—even the ones I’d carefully built walls around. That was the thing about her. She never pushed. Never asked questions I didn’t want to answer. She just existed like a presence I didn’t realize I’d needed until she was already in my life.

I wasn’t used to people like that.

We talked about small things after that. Nothing heavy. The taste of the food here. The sound of the waves from her side of the world. The terrible playlist Yuri had insisted on blasting last night at the pool. I didn’t mention Rafael. Not directly. Maybe because I didn’t know how to put into words the way his presence felt like a match held too close to dry skin. I didn’t want to explain the bruise-shaped tension that lingered between us every time we spoke. And I sure as hell didn’t want to hear someone else’s opinion about it.

Anna laughed softly at something I said—something about Ash and the way he was still too pretty for his own good—and I found myself smiling despite the storm cloud still trailing behind my thoughts.

Then came the knock. A sharp, firm rap against the door. Once. Twice. No hesitation.

My eyes flicked toward it immediately, pulse slowing in that strange way it did when your body knew before your brain did that something was shifting.

I sat up slowly, the phone still in my hand. “Hold on,” I told Anna, frowning. “Someone’s at the door.”

“Is it Kellan?” she asked gently, sipping her tea.

I shook my head. “He would’ve texted first. And he doesn’t knock like that.”

Something about the sound of it had lodged itself in my spine.

I pushed off the bed and padded barefoot toward the kitchen, setting my phone on the counter so the camera still faced me. Anna remained on screen, watching silently, her face unreadable now.

I moved to the door, my fingers brushing the knob as another knock echoed through the air. My thoughts swirled with quiet curiosity, the kind that always came before the fall.

The door swung open under my hand, and there he was. Blood soaked the sleeve of his shirt, the fabric sticking to his skin like it had been molded there. His collar was undone, the buttons askew, sweat glistening across his temple. He looked like war. Like sin wrapped in silk and sharpened steel.

And he didn’t even blink.

“Hope I’m not interrupting,” he rasped, his voice darker than usual. Rougher.

I couldn’t move. Not at first. Not with the sight of him in front of me—his jaw clenched, his body humming with the kind of tension that said if I touched him too hard, he’d break. Or maybe I would.

He brushed past me before I could respond, not waiting for permission. He didn’t need it. He never had. Not from me.

I closed the door with a quiet click and turned slowly, the air heavy, thick with something I couldn’t name yet. He was halfway into the living room when I finally spoke, my voice low. “What the hell happened to you?”

He started to say something, lips parting, but I cut him off. “Wait.”

I didn’t wait for a reaction. I spun around and rushed to the kitchen counter where I’d left my phone, fingers fumbling as Ipicked it up. Anna had placed her phone down, the camera now facing the ceiling, soft sounds of her humming coming through the speakers. She was back in her kitchen, moving about. She hadn’t seen him. Hadn’t seen his face. Thank God.

Still, my pulse thrummed against my throat like it knew something I didn’t.

“I have to go,” I said quickly into the mic. “Talk later.”

I didn’t wait for her to respond. I hit the red button and watched the screen go dark. Then I turned around slowly, pressing the phone to the counter like it could anchor me.

He was sitting on the couch now, one arm slung over the backrest, the other resting on his thigh. His wound—though still bleeding—was mostly controlled, but I could see the strain on his features. The barely-there tremble in his fingers.

“You don’t look dead,” I said flatly, walking a few steps toward him. “Disappointing.”