Page 189 of The Devil's Thorn

“Say something,” I dared him. “What, nothing left to manipulate? No lies to feed me this time? Or maybe you’re too busy wondering if I ever truly wanted you—if I ever would.”

The space between us was airless. My chest was heaving, soaked hair clinging to my cheeks, the weight of everything pressing into my bones.

He blinked once. Then his voice came—low, brutal.

“Shut up.”

And then his mouth crashed into mine—cutting off every bitter word I had loaded, locked, and ready to fire. My hands were pinned, wrists still caught in his bruising grip, my body caged between Rafael Romanov and the stone wall behind me, and yet none of that compared to the fire roaring through my chest.

I froze. Just for a second. My mind reeled, trying to piece together what the hell was happening—what the hell I was letting happen.

And then it hit me. The fury. The betrayal. The truth.

I bit down—hard—on his lower lip, tasting the copper tang of blood between us as he hissed and pulled back just an inch, but didn’t let go. His dark eyes burned like gasoline catching flame, the rain pouring down his face, catching in his lashes, soaking the strands of hair plastered to his forehead.

“Fuck you,” I snarled, chest heaving. “You think this makes you less of a liar? You think you can just grab me—drag me like some animal—and I’ll forget what you are?”

His hands didn’t loosen.

He smirked, lip bloodied, and leaned closer. “No, Isabella. I’m counting on you to remember exactly what I am.”

His mouth crashed into mine again, more violent this time. Less kiss, more warning. My body betrayed me. I hated the way I responded—how my back arched, how I twisted my hands,trying and failing to get them out of his grip. I hated the heat pooling in my stomach. I hated him.

And I needed more.

The kiss was war—teeth and tongues and bruising need. He pulled back just enough to breathe, lips brushing mine, voice a low, threatening growl against the rain. “You should’ve stayed in your room.”

“You should’ve stayed dead,” I spat, before I yanked him down again.

We stumbled back, his hands roaming over my ribs as if mapping every place he’d one day destroy, and I pushed back with equal force—fingertips dragging across his shoulder blades, arms wrapping around his neck like chains.

He didn’t ask. He didn’t beg. And I didn’t stop him.

He moved us without ever breaking the kiss, one hand gripping my waist, the other tangled in my hair, tugging just hard enough to make me gasp. That gasp let him in deeper. His hips pressed against mine as he blindly opened the door to the resort, guiding me backwards over the threshold.

The world outside drowned in the storm. But in here, we were the hurricane. And I had no idea if I wanted to survive it.

His mouth was on mine the second we stumbled into the resort, breath crashing against breath, teeth clashing like they couldn’t decide whether to kiss or tear. My back slammed into a wall, and a vase to our right toppled, shattering into porcelain shards that scattered across the polished floor.

I didn’t flinch. Neither did he.

His hand found my jaw, tilting it, angling me how he wanted like I was his to shape—his to destroy. And maybe I was. I didn’t know where he ended and I began anymore.

“You’re such a—” I gasped when he dragged my lower lip between his teeth, cutting the words from my mouth like he owned them.

“No more talking,” he growled against my skin. He pushed me toward another wall, his mouth never leaving mine, the rhythm of our feet chaotic, desperate. We were bruising each other in the most intimate way possible.

I shoved him. He caught my wrist. I cursed him. He cursed right back.

And then he slammed me against the final wall—his door. My skull tapped the wood, his body caging me in again, and I barely felt the impact because all I could feel washim.

His hand dipped behind him, and I heard the soft click of the lock disengaging.

Then my feet left the ground. He hoisted me up, his hands gripping the back of my thighs as my legs wrapped around his waist like they had always meant to be there. He kicked the door open and carried me inside, slamming it shut with a foot and leaning his weight into it—intome—as he locked it again.

I tugged at his shirt, frustrated with the heat radiating off his skin and the fabric keeping me from it.

He peeled it over his head, tossing it somewhere into the room, his eyes never leaving mine. I yanked my jacket off, my fingers trembling as I reached for the hem of my top. The cotton whispered over my skin as I pulled it over my head and dropped it to the floor. The air hit my skin, sharp and cool in contrast to his heat.