Page 193 of The Devil's Thorn
The sheets were cool now, the storm of moments ago already cooling on my skin. And Rafael’s shirt… it was too big, swallowing me whole, like even now he had to leave his mark, his claim, on something.
My wrists throbbed—just enough to remind me that he hadn’t held back. Not really. I should’ve left. But I couldn’t go back to my suite. Kellan and Ash were probably still there, glued to the laptops, pacing like wolves. I didn’t want to explain anything. I didn’t want to be seen. Not by them. Not after this.
The door to the bathroom creaked open, and I didn’t look. I didn’t need to. I felt him.
Rafael walked back into the room like he owned it—like he hadn’t just ripped it apart. His footsteps were steady, grounded, like nothing ever touched him.
I stayed on my back, still watching the ceiling. My fingers curled into the sheets as he slid into the bed beside me without a word.
The mattress dipped. He didn’t reach for me. Just lay there, both of us facing the same darkness, breathing in silence.
I glanced sideways. He had one arm thrown beneath his head, staring up like he was thinking about something that only made sense in Russian.
I turned back, jaw tightening. And then it slipped out—too dry, too sharp.
“So… you never use a condom?” My voice cut through the stillness like a blade.
He turned his head slowly, and I felt his gaze rake over me before he spoke. His voice was low. Even. “First time I didn’t.”
Something twisted in my stomach. I hated how my chest fluttered. It wasn’t romantic. It was maddening. “And I’m supposed to feel special now?” I muttered, eyes still locked on the ceiling.
“No,” he said simply. “You’re not.”
Silence stretched again. It wrapped around us like smoke, thick and heavy and refusing to dissipate.
“Then why?” I asked.
He didn’t answer right away. I thought he wouldn’t. But then— “Because,” he said finally, “something about you makes me forget to think straight.”
I rolled onto my side, facing him, propping my head on my hand. “That’s supposed to be a compliment?”
“It’s not.” He looked at me, his voice a shade darker. “It’s a problem.”
A pause.
“And yet,” I said, dryly, “here we are.”
His mouth twitched—almost a smirk, almost something dangerous. “We’re always somewhere we shouldn’t be.”
I stared at him. “You didn’t want this.”
“No,” he agreed. “I wanted to wring your neck half the time.”
“And the other half?” I asked.
His eyes locked on mine, voice sharp enough to pierce the air. “I wanted to bend you over the nearest surface.”
Heat curled low in my stomach, but I didn’t let it show. I just stared. “You’re still a bastard,” I muttered.
“And you’re still poison coursing inside me,” he shot back.
But he didn’t turn away. Neither did I.
Minutes passed. Maybe more. I could feel the weight of exhaustion tugging at my limbs, anchoring me to the bed. Everything in me burned.
I closed my eyes. His scent was still on my skin. His marks too. But something told me it wasn’t over. Not even close.
And the worst part?
