Page 182 of The Devil's Thorn
I looked at him. “More than you think.”
Ash finally spoke. “You get in trouble, you call. Don’t be a hero.”
“I’m not,” I replied. “I’m just done waiting.”
Kellan gave me a long look. “There’s no point in convincing you not to go, is there?”
I shook my head once. “None.”
He exhaled, rubbing his jaw. “The tracker’s live. I’ll ping your location every five minutes. If you go silent or off grid for longer than fifteen—we come.”
“I wouldn’t expect anything less.”
Ash pushed the second laptop toward Kellan and leaned back again. “You know this is reckless, right?”
“I know,” I said. “But sometimes that’s the only way forward.”
I walked to the door, placing my hand on the handle. My pulse was calm, but I could feel something coiled deep inside my chest. Not fear. Not yet. Just that familiar pull. The same one I followed when I got too close to danger.
Kellan’s voice stopped me just before I walked out. “You better come back.”
I turned slightly, meeting his eyes. “You better be waiting when I do.”
Then I opened the door and walked into the night—alone, armed, and ready.
The quiet wrapped around me like a second skin, each step muffled by the smooth tiles of the resort hall as I made my way toward the exit. The corridors had gone still, shadows cast by the warm sconces stretching long across the walls.
My thoughts were louder than my footsteps. Every breath I took was laced with purpose, though the knot twisting in my chest made it feel like a countdown had already begun. I could still hear Kellan’s voice echoing in my head—you better come back.
I would.
But not until I had answers. Not until I knew for sure what Damyen was planning.
The air grew warmer as I approached the resort doors, the weight of the gun resting against my lower back grounding me more than I cared to admit. I was nearly at the threshold when something sharp cut through the stillness.
A scent. Thick. Familiar. Weed.
I slowed, my boots scraping lightly against the ground as I turned my head. There he was.
Leaning against the wall, half in shadow, shirt wrinkled and barely buttoned. Khaki shorts hanging low on his hips like theybelonged to someone else. And that ever-present grin twisting the corner of his mouth like he knew things he wasn’t supposed to. Yuri.
A lit blunt dangled between his fingers, a lazy trail of smoke curling in the air beside him. “Well, well, well,” he drawled, eyes glinting. “Going for a midnight stroll, lapushka?”
I blinked, straightening subtly. “Just a walk.”
His eyes dropped to my boots, then climbed slowly to the black jacket I hadn’t taken off despite the humid air pressing down like a second atmosphere.
He chuckled low, dragging from the blunt. “Bit overdressed for a walk, don’t you think? The jacket’s a nice touch though—really screamscasual beach vibes.”
I arched a brow. “You planning to join the fashion police, or just stalk the hallways with your weed and sarcasm?”
He held up both hands in mock defense. “Guilty on both counts. But you can’t blame me for being curious. It’s not every night a woman dresses like she’s headed to war.”
“Maybe I am.”
His grin widened.
“But I’m not,” I added quickly. “Just restless.”
