Page 121 of The Devil's Thorn
Gold light spills over the walls like melted coins. The scent of expensive cologne, perfume, and power fills the air, laced withcigarette smoke and the undercurrent of sweat and adrenaline. Chips clink. Laughter bubbles. Ice shifts in whiskey tumblers.
But all of it dims beneath the echo of my heels.
I don’t rush. Ineverrush.
The dress clings like sin, the gold chain belt glinting with every slow sway of my hips. The slit reveals just enough to earn attention—calculated, never careless. My ponytail swings like a whip behind me, and the red lipstick is a slash across my face, a warning painted pretty.
I know exactly what I look like. And that’s the point.
I walk toward the bar, feeling eyes track my path like lasers. Some filled with curiosity. Others with hunger.
But one… only one burns with something colder. Sharper.
I order a drink—something dark and bitter, poured slow and neat. I take it in my hand and lean against the bar like I have all the time in the world.
And then I glance sideways—just enough to see him. Rafael Romanov. Seated like he owns the room. Because he does.
He’s angled in his chair, one arm resting on the back, a crystal tumbler in his other hand, ice glinting. He’s surrounded by men—Bratva, no doubt—but it’shimthat the light finds.
Dark suit. White shirt. No tie. The top buttons undone, revealing the curve of his collarbone and the whisper of tattoos beneath it.
But it’s his eyes that strike me. Because they’re already on me.
I meet his gaze without blinking. And then, with a slow, deliberate lift of my hand, I raise my glass to him.
Smile.
Sip.
His expression doesn’t change. But something shifts in his jaw. Something that makes heat coil in my stomach.
Let it burn, Rafael.
You drugged me. You let me fall asleep with a weapon still strapped to my thigh. Tonight, I remind you what happens when youunderestimate the knife you sheathed.
I turn away from him and refocus on the floor. Laughter. Clinking chips. The low hum of tension that never leaves this place.
And then I hear it. Kellan’s voice in my ear, quiet and clear. “Viktor’s in. Black suit, no tie. East corner, two tables past the roulette. He’s seated. Alone for now.”
I don’t respond. Can’t. Too many eyes. Too much risk. I just lower my gaze to the rim of my glass and take another sip, letting the ice kiss my lips.
My pulse calms. My spine lengthens.
I wait three minutes. Then I set the glass down, cross the floor with slow precision, and spot him exactly where Kellan said he’d be.
Viktor Dreshaj. Albanian. Ruthless. And perfectly placed.
I smile as I approach.
Let the second game begin.
He doesn’t look up right away. Not until I’m standing close enough that he can smell the perfume on my skin—dark jasmine, black pepper, and something smoky beneath it.
Then, slowly, Viktor Dreshaj turns his head. His eyes sweep me, shameless and unhurried. Not like Rafael’s—measured and assessing—but like a man who assumes he already owns whatever stands before him.
I give him nothing. Only a tilt of my head. Only a smile.
“Is this seat taken?” I ask, voice silk-wrapped steel.
