Page 232 of The Devil's Thorn

And then he stepped closer—close enough for his presence to wrap around me, familiar and consuming. “We should go,” he said, voice softer now. “Before someone else tries to auction me off.”

I huffed a quiet laugh, but the heat between us didn’t ease.

Because the truth was— There was no going back.

Not from this. Not from him.

And definitely not fromus.

CHAPTER 19

ISABELLA

Iturned over for what had to be the hundredth time. The sheets were soft, luxurious, scented faintly with lavender—but they felt suffocating. Twisting around me like vines, like I was being buried alive under silk and memory.

Sleep wouldn’t come. It hadn’t even tried. Not with everything clawing beneath my skin.

The room was dim, lit only by the low golden glow from the streetlights outside bleeding through the sheer curtains. Naples at night was quieter than I expected—still, almost reverent—but my mind was a storm.

Lorenzo’s eyes. The way they had hovered on my wrist. The bracelet. My mother.

You wear her memory like armor.

The words wouldn’t stop repeating, like someone had carved them into my skull and left the echo behind to torture me.

I rolled onto my back, staring up at the high ceiling. Crown molding, marble floors, gold-trimmed furniture. The suite wasbeautiful. Everything about this temporary place was perfect on the outside.

But it wasn’t mine. None of this was.

Not the city. Not the questions it held. Not even the version of myself that had started to emerge since I stepped into Rafael’s world—stronger, colder, sharper.

And still, aching.

I kicked the blanket off, sat up slowly, pressing the heels of my hands into my eyes like I could push the thoughts away by force. The silence in the room roared louder than any gunshot.

I needed air. I neededout.

Sliding out of bed, I padded across the floor in my bare feet, the chill of the marble grounding me for half a second. I didn’t bother turning on a light. I moved by instinct now.

I reached for the clothes draped over the nearby armchair—simple, dark jeans and a black top. Soft. Fitted. Easy to move in. I pulled them on without ceremony, ignoring the chill that prickled along my skin.

A light jacket followed. Black leather. Worn in all the right ways.

I grabbed my boots, laced them without overthinking, then stood for a moment in front of the mirror.

My hair was a little messy. My eyes looked shadowed, but not weak. No one would stop me. No one would even notice. And if Rafael did?—

I didn’t want to think about that.

I pulled the door open and slipped out into the hall. The estate—or hotel, or whatever this neutral ground was—was silent, dimly lit with sconce lighting that flickered slightly as I passed. My footsteps were soft against the rug runner, and no one crossed my path as I made my way down the stairs and out into the night.

The city was cool, not cold. Quiet, but alive in the way old cities always are. Like something ancient was breathing beneath the cobblestone streets and stone facades, too old to die, too proud to be forgotten.

I didn’t have a direction. Just motion.

I walked. Turned corners. Crossed through narrow alleys and winding lanes, past shuttered cafés and sleeping balconies with vines curling along wrought iron rails. I saw flickers of life behind curtains, heard the distant hum of a car engine, a bell tower far away.

I didn’t stop. Because stopping meantfeeling. Thinking. Remembering. And I didn’t want to. Not yet.