Page 6 of The Devil's Thorn

Because even now… I feel it.

That pull.

That lingering heat of Rafael’s gaze from a rooftop away, still burned into my skin like a brand I never asked for.

And tomorrow…

Tomorrow, I’ll walk into his world like I belong in it.

The porch creaks beneath my boots as I climb the steps, the worn wood groaning like it remembers every secret whispered in this house.

I glance up at the faded number above the door. 206. The paint’s chipped, the metal rusted along the edges. It’s the kind of place you’d walk past without a second thought. Just another building in a row of buildings.

But for me, it’s been a kind of refuge. A shelter.

Anna’s home doesn’t just smell like cinnamon and old books—itfeelslike safety. Which is ironic, considering what I do. What I’vedone. But in here, I can breathe. Or at least I used to.

Tonight, the air feels… heavier.

I unlock the door with the key she gave me last year. “For whenever you need it, my little storm,” she’d said.

The nickname used to make me smile. Now, I don’t know what to feel.

I step inside and shut the door softly behind me.

It’s warm. Cozy. The yellow glow of a table lamp spills across the living room, brushing against floral curtains, lace doilies, and the same porcelain tea set that’s been sitting untouched on the corner shelf since I met her.

The scent of chamomile and lemon balm lingers in the air. A record hums in the background—some old classical piano piece I can’t name. It’s soft. Soothing. Like always.

But my fingers curl tighter around my jacket.

Something’s different.

“Anna?” I call gently.

Her voice comes from the kitchen. “In here, sweetheart.”

I slip out of my boots and walk through the narrow hallway, my eyes tracing the photographs on the wall like they always do. None of them are real. Not really. Just strangers in frames, bought from thrift stores, arranged to mimic a life that never existed.

It used to break my heart—that she had no real family photos.

Now it unsettles me.

Anna stands at the stove, wearing one of her floral aprons, silver hair pulled into a low bun. There’s a steaming cup already on the table—mine, chamomile with too much honey, just the way I like it.

She turns when she hears me, smiling with that softness that used to feel like home.

But tonight… it scratches something raw in me.

“There you are,” she says, wiping her hands on a dish towel. “You missed dinner.”

“I wasn’t hungry.” I slide into the chair, my jacket still wrapped around me. “Had a long night.”

Her eyes flick to mine. They’re the same pale blue they’ve always been—watery, kind, deceptively innocent. “Work?”

Something about the way she says it makes me pause. She never askswhatmy work is. She just accepts that I disappear sometimes with blood in my teeth and ghosts in my eyes.

“Something like that,” I say.