Page 148 of The Devil's Thorn
“I’m never early,” Rafael said, his eyes on me now. “Just prepared.”
I didn’t look away. Let the games begin.
I didn’t expect to like Yuri. The blunt in his hand. The wide, lazy grin. The cocky swagger like he owned the pool and maybe the world. He looked like trouble dressed in sun-warmed ease and golden skin. But there was something infectious in the way he laughed, like nothing around him could take itself too seriously—not even Rafael.
Especially not Rafael.
Yuri had barely taken a sip of his drink before he started teasing him. “So,” he said, kicking back on one of the loungers and stretching like a damn cat, “how long did it take you to plan your brooding entrance? Or do you just walk around with that face on standby?”
Rafael didn’t flinch. “Two months in Russia and you’ve already forgotten your place.”
Yuri smirked. “My place is wherever I’m needed to remind you that you’re not a god.”
Nikolai, leaning against the wall with arms crossed, let out a low chuckle. “He tried to stage a coup in the Moscow safehouse, if you’re wondering how that went.”
“I did no such thing,” Yuri said with mock offense. “I merely suggested I’d be a better leader. The room agreed.”
“The room,” Nikolai muttered, “was made of vodka bottles.”
Yuri winked at me then, tossing back the last of his drink. “You see what I deal with?”
I couldn’t help it—my lips tugged slightly, the smallest hint of amusement warming my face. The three of them together were… magnetic. The brutal power of Rafael. The lethal quiet of Nikolai. And then Yuri, who brought a strange kind of life into the middle of it. Their banter wasn’t for show. It was old, worn-in. Years of loyalty. Of death and blood and survival.
It reminded me of Kellan and Ash in a way. Different, but threaded with the same kind of bone-deep bond.
And maybe that’s why, when Kellan and Ash joined us by the pool, everything settled. There was still tension, of course—there always would be—but something about this moment… it felt less like a mission and more like the calm before a storm.
Rafael’s eyes were on me. I could feel them, steady and unreadable. I didn’t look at him. Not yet.
Yuri noticed. “Should we all give you two a minute or do we wait for the knives to come out first?”
“Yuri,” Rafael warned, his tone sharp.
But Yuri just grinned. “There he is. I missed that voice.”
Kellan smirked beside me. “I like this one.”
“I don’t,” Ash said dryly, but I knew that glint in his eyes. He’d like Yuri just fine.
Eventually, a young worker approached us, his stance formal but slightly unsure. “Señor Carranza,” he said, thick accent curling the words, “would you like me to show your guests to their rooms?”
I turned slightly, curious about Rafael’s answer. But instead of English, he replied in flawless Spanish—deep, smooth, and shockingly fluid.
“Muéstrales sus habitaciones. Que se acomoden bien.”
It shouldn’t have stunned me. Of course he spoke Spanish. We were in Colombia, and the Bratva stretched far wider than Russian borders. But hearing it—hearing him like that—did something to me. The control in his voice. The confidence. It rattled me more than I’d admit.
He didn’t look at me when he said it, but he knew I heard. I caught the subtle curve at the corner of his mouth before he turned away.
Bastard.
The worker motioned for us to follow, and I glanced once at Rafael—at the weight of his presence, the ink peeking out from beneath his rolled sleeves, the stillness in his body like coiled steel—before I turned and walked.
The resort was carved into the cliffs above the ocean. Terracotta rooftops, long balconies, and marble pathways winding through lush greenery and silent pools. It felt like stepping into another world. Clean, polished. Expensive. Dangerous.
My heels clicked softly along the stone as we reached the villa nestled furthest from the others. The worker stopped at thedoor, then nodded to me. “Esta es su habitación, señorita.” He unlocked the door and stepped aside.
I turned back slightly, watching as Kellan and Ash were led further down the path toward their own rooms. The sun beat down on my skin, golden and hot, but a shiver still ran through me.
