Page 173 of The Devil's Thorn
He stared at me for a beat. Then let go. His mouth twitched like he wanted to say something but didn’t. That almost-smirk again.
I grabbed the antiseptic and gauze, pouring just enough onto a cloth. “This is going to hurt,” I said without any sugar-coating, dipping the cloth in again and moving closer.
He didn’t move.
“Wouldn’t be the first time,” he muttered.
I paused. “Must burn like hell,” I said, tone flat but not unfeeling.
His gaze flicked up to mine. “You get used to pain,” he said simply. “Eventually, it’s the only thing that still feels real.”
His words weren’t dramatic. No false weight. Just fact. And something about the way he said it settled uncomfortably in my chest. Like it pressed on a bruise I’d forgotten I had.
I didn’t answer. Didn’t trust myself to. Instead, I pressed the soaked cloth against the gash on his arm.
He hissed between his teeth but didn’t move. My eyes flicked to his face. A muscle jumped in his cheek, but that was all. He stared straight ahead like I wasn’t even there, like he could will the pain away by refusing to give it power.
It was both infuriating and… Mesmerizing.
“I could dig in with pliers, and you’d still act like this was a scratch,” I muttered.
“Probably,” he rasped, dryly. “But you won’t. You want me alive.”
I didn’t deny it.
For a second, my hand lingered—just slightly—before I reached for more gauze. And in that second, something passed between us. Not a truce. Not even understanding. Just heat. Silent. Simmering.Dangerous.
I kept my face neutral as I reached for the surgical thread. The moment I touched it, his voice slid out like a blade.
“Try not to fuck it up.”
I didn’t look at him. “Bleed out, Carrion King. See if I care.”
I took a breath as I unwrapped the sterile suture kit, laying the tools out across the table one by one—scissors, forceps, needle holder, curved needle pre-threaded with black surgical thread. The antiseptic still clung to the air, sharp and acrid. It didn’t bother me. The smell grounded me.
Rafael sat still as stone, his good hand braced on the armrest of the couch, his wounded one lying slightly elevated and bloody in his lap. His posture was relaxed, but it was the kind of calm you only get after years of violence. Calculated. Controlled.He might’ve been bleeding, but he still looked like the most dangerous thing in the room.
“Don’t flinch,” I said coolly, pulling on the gloves.
His lips curved into something that wasn’t quite a smile. “You trying to scare me, or seduce me, malishka?”
I shot him a glare, grabbing the antiseptic again. “You’d be easier to seduce unconscious.”
“I like a challenge.”
I didn’t answer. My fingers were steady as I wiped the wound one last time and held the needle over it. “You’re going to feel this,” I said flatly.
“I’d be disappointed if I didn’t.”
The first puncture broke the skin clean. I watched his jaw tighten, the cords of his neck strain slightly. No sound came from him. No breath hitched.
He just watched me. That was the worst part.
His eyes tracked every movement of my hands, like I was a bomb technician and he was the damn device.
“You’re too quiet,” I muttered, threading the needle through again. “It’s unsettling.”
“Would you prefer I scream?”
