Page 57 of The Devil's Thorn

The words are low. Calm. But they echo like a loaded chamber in my chest.

I take a slow breath and step forward, my hands loose at my sides, heels clicking softly as I follow him across the floor.

He doesn’t glance back to make sure I’m behind him. He already knows I am. And I already know… This is no longer just a shift. It’s a reckoning.

The air feels different now. Cooler. Quieter. The second we step away from the casino floor, the noise fades behind us like a dying echo. The doors seal off the chaos, and suddenly it’s just the sound of his footsteps, sharp and even, and mine—softer, lighter, more hesitant than I’ll ever admit.

But the space between us feels like an edge. Like I’m walking it barefoot, balancing between control and exposure.

His pace doesn’t rush. Mine doesn’t falter.

Still, every second feels like a countdown.

We round the corner past the private lounge, where velvet curtains and smoke linger like secrets. Then it’s just polished floors, brass lighting, the hum of wealth and power settled deep into the bones of the building.

The private elevator sits at the end of the hallway. Silver. Sleek. Guarded by two men in suits who step aside the second Rafael nears, pressing the call button without a word.

He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t gesture. Just waits. And I stand behind him, still as stone.

Then I hear it— a faint static hum in my ear.

“Isa.”

Kellan.

His voice is low, clipped with tension.

“You need to be careful. We don’t have camera access to the top floor. Too many privacy blocks. You’ll lose feed any minute.”

I say nothing. I don’t move.

Rafael doesn’t react. He doesn’t hear it.

But I do.

“If anything feels off, say the word. I’ll come up. Doesn’t matter how secure it is.”

I swallow, the sound sticking to my throat like something heavier. Because he doesn’t know what I already feel. It’s not that something feels off.

It’s that everything feelsinevitable.

The elevator doors open with a soft chime, and Rafael steps inside. He still hasn’t said a word. And neither have I. Not until the doors begin to close behind me.

“Is this about your conversation at the table?” I ask quietly, testing him, watching for the flicker of reaction.

He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t blink. He only turns his head slightly, just enough to glance at me from the corner of his eye.

“Is that what you think this is about?”

His voice is calm. Dry. That smooth kind of danger wrapped in velvet.

I hold his gaze for half a second, then look ahead again. “I don’t know what this is.”

He doesn’t answer. Because he doesn’t have to. The silence answers for him.

We rise. Floor after floor, the numbers light up in gold.

My pulse starts to race—not fast, but deep, like it’s dragging through me. Like it knows we’re climbing into something we don’t come back from.