Page 239 of The Devil's Thorn

His free hand slid to my hip, grounding me. Holding me. And all I could think— Was that nothing had ever felt this much like belonging.

His mouth moved over mine like he owned it. Not gently. Not sweetly. But like he was devouring something that had been his from the beginning—long before I knew it.

I kissed him back. Fierce. Needy. Without shame. Because this wasn’t a game. Not anymore. It was something deeper. Older. A collision dressed up like fate.

His hand at my jaw tightened just slightly as he angled my head, deepening the kiss until I was gasping into it—until my thoughts weren’t thoughts anymore, just fire.

And then— He bit my bottom lip.

Hard, with enough pressure to steal the breath from my lungs. He didn’t pull away immediately. He held it there—his teeth and his heat and the tension coiling in the center of my chest.

When he finally let go, his lips ghosted over mine as he whispered— “I’m not your salvation, Isabella. I’m your favorite sin.”

My knees almost buckled. He said it not like a confession, but a vow. Like hewantedto be the thing that dragged me down. That hewelcomedit. And so did I.

His mouth found mine again, hungrier this time. His body pressed flush against mine, and I felt the firm heat of his chest against my back, the press of his hips, the grip of his hand still holding the length of the holy sash binding my wrists.

And then—there was a shift. His other hand slipped to the inside of his jacket. I felt the movement before I saw it. The click of a blade being released from a pocket.

My breath hitched.

He brought it forward, not hidden—deliberate—holding it at my side as he continued to kiss me, as if the sharpness of metal between us didn’t break the intimacy, but deepened it.

My heart pounded, but I wasn’t afraid. I wasthrumming.

He dragged the blade gently down my sternum—so light, it was barely a kiss of steel. I felt it slide beneath the hem of my shirt. Pause.

And then— Rip.

The fabric split cleanly down the middle, the blade slicing through cotton like silk. I gasped softly, lips parting against his. But still, he didn’t hurt me. His control was absolute.

He pulled the shirt apart just enough to expose the curve of my bra, the black lace catching the flicker of candlelight like it had been waiting to be seen. I wasn’t bare. But I wasoffered.

I felt the cool air hit my skin. Felt the blade retreat just as smoothly as it had come.

He leaned into me, mouth brushing the shell of my ear. “Tell me who this body belongs to.”

My breath caught in my throat. “You,” I whispered. It came out broken. It came out true.

His fingers brushed down the exposed line of my spine, slow, reverent. “Say it again.”

“You.”

His hand flattened over my ribs, spreading across my bare stomach as he guided me forward—down. His grip on the sash at my wrists tightened just slightly.

He bent me forward—slowly, deliberately—until my chest was against the cold cathedral wall, my arms still bound behind me, my head turned just enough to see him over my shoulder.

My breath shook. But I didn’t resist. Icouldn’t.

Because there was nothing left of me to fight. Only the girl who had walked into a cathedral… And found her god in a man with a knife and a holy sash.

I heard the sound before I felt the shift—the low, deliberate slide of leather pulled free from its loops. It sliced through the heavy silence like a ritual. A warning. My breath caught, my skin buzzing with anticipation.

Then came the soft clink of his buckle hitting the floor. I tried to turn my head, to see him. I needed to see him. But his hand—steady and firm—pressed between my shoulder blades, anchoring me against the cold stone. There was no chaos in his touch. Only control. A quiet, terrifying command of everything I was.

His voice was low, almost reverent. “You’re shaking.”

“I know.”