Page 245 of The Devil's Thorn

“Which it won’t,” I muttered, almost to myself.

I wasn’t even testing him. I wascurious. About his process. His precision. The way everything he touched was sharp-edged, brutal, and seamless.

He was dangerous, yes. But not because he was violent. Because he didn’t miss.

“And after Naples?” I asked. “What’s next?”

The elevator glided upward.

He watched the numbers change. “Berlin. Then Oslo.”

“Cold route.”

“Safer right now. And cleaner.”

“Not unless you’re paying off the right council.”

“I always do.”

The doors slid open with a soft ding, revealing the private floor. I stepped out first, my boots quiet against the thick carpet as the hallway opened up in front of us—dark walls, golden sconces, polished wood doors at even intervals.

I could still feel him behind me. I didn’t turn. I just walked. Until I reached my suite.

My hand touched the key card in my pocket. “If it goes sideways,” I said, still not facing him, “in Naples or anywhere else… what’s your backup plan?”

A beat.

“You.”

I looked at him then. Met his eyes over my shoulder, heart beating slow and steady behind my ribs.

He didn’t blink. He didn’t smile. And neither did I.

I slid the key into the lock, twisted it, and stepped inside.

The second the door clicked shut behind me, the silence inside the suite wrapped around me like a shroud. Heavy. Still. Not comforting. Just quiet in a way that didn’t feel real.

The sound of my own breath filled the space as I walked further inside. My footsteps sank into the plush carpet, and the air smelled faintly of lavender from the diffuser someone had set up earlier in the evening. A hotel staff touch, maybe. Some attempt at calm.

I didn’t feel calm. I felt…altered.

The light was low—just the single lamp near the corner casting a warm gold glow across the room. I didn’t bother turning on anything else. I didn’t need to see myself clearly. Not right now.

I passed the small seating area, barely noticing the untouched bottle of water and the folder of briefings Yuri had handed me earlier this week. None of it mattered. Not tonight.

I shrugged Rafael’s jacket off my shoulders as I reached the bed. The leather was still warm from my body, but somehow still carried his scent—dark and expensive and unmistakable.

I stared at it for a second in my hands. Then folded it neatly and set it at the edge of the bed.

It wasn’t mine. But he’d put it on me like it was.

My fingers moved to the shredded remains of my shirt, the front hanging open like a wound. I exhaled softly and pulled it off, tossing it onto the floor without another glance.

The lace underneath was still intact. Barely. My skin bore faint red lines where his hands had been. Where his mouth had marked me.

I didn’t hide from them. I just changed. I pulled a black sleep tank from my bag—thin and soft—and a pair of matching shorts. Slid them on with slow, deliberate movements. I didn’t rush. But I didn’t linger either. Because if I lingered, I’d start thinking too hard.

And if I thought too hard, I’d have to face the truth of what I let happen tonight. What Iwantedto happen. And how easily I’d do it again.