Page 116 of The Devil's Thorn
“That’s not new.”
“No. But this is.”
He doesn’t say anything else for a moment.
Then, “You do realize what that means, right? What she could be? Who shereallyis?”
“I know enough.”
“You don’t knowshit.”
“But I will.”
The call ends not long after.
I don’t remember what else we said. Just that Nikolai didn’t push it. Didn’t scoff. Didn’t tell me I was out of my mind. Because deep down? He knows.
This isn’t about love. It’s not about loyalty. It’s aboutinevitability.
She’s not part of the game anymore. Sheisthe game.
And whether she knows it yet or not— We’re playing it together.
CHAPTER 8
ISABELLA
Thedarkness behind my eyes fades slowly, like smoke crawling back into the shadows it came from.
My limbs are heavy. My head pounds once, twice—and then the weight of it all crashes down on me like a wave breaking against a jagged cliff.
The drink. His voice. The way my body betrayed me before my mind could even register what was happening.
I blink at the ceiling. Cold sheets, my silk pillow. My bed. I’m home. He brought me back. Or they did.
I sit up slowly, the ache behind my eyes dragging across my skull like glass. My throat is dry, my mouth tastes like iron and ash. I press my palm to my temple and slide out of bed.
The dress still clings to my skin like a ghost. The same one I wore when I told him I wouldn’t be underestimated. When I slipped a vitamin in his drink and laughed like I’d won.
And then he showed me how wrong I was.
I peel the dress off slowly, letting it fall to the floor in a soft heap of black fabric and pride. My body is still whole. Untouched. He didn’t hurt me.
But that doesn’t make it better. It makes it worse.
He played me. And he did it perfectly.
I pull on a soft black tank and shorts, not bothering to brush my hair. I walk barefoot to the living room, cold marble under my feet, the weight of humiliation simmering into something far more dangerous.
Rage.
The kind that doesn’t scream or cry. The kind that plots.
The living room is dim, the soft golden lights from the kitchen washing across the space like warm fog. Kellan stands near the counter, pouring coffee into a mug, the clink of ceramic the only sound. Ash sits
on the edgeof the couch, elbows on his knees, staring at nothing. Neither of them look at me.
They heard me. They always do.
