Page 195 of The Devil's Thorn
He turned, slow and calm. “Because we’re leaving soon.” His voice was steady. “And I figured you’d rather not deal with the emotional chaos of running into your two guard dogs first thing in the morning.”
I blinked. “So you just had someone pack my things?”
“I did,” he said simply. “Someone trustworthy. Nothing is missing.”
“You think that’s the point?”
He tilted his head. “No. But I think you’re smart enough to know why I did it anyway.”
I didn’t answer right away. I just stared at him. I didn’t know what was more unsettling—that he was probably right, or that I wasn’t entirely sure I was angry about it.
Maybe it was easier this way.
“Get dressed,” he said, placing his empty glass down on the nearby table. “We’re having breakfast with the others before we leave. I want you to tell them everything you overheard.”
“Is that an order?” I asked, brow lifting.
He smirked, the corner of his mouth twitching. “Would it make a difference?”
I narrowed my eyes, then huffed and shoved the blanket off me. “You’re lucky I was planning to tell them anyway.”
“I know.”
Arrogant bastard.
I stood, wrapping the sheet around me as I stepped toward the suitcase that looked recently opened. I rifled through it until I found something dark—black jeans and a sleeveless top—and grabbed it before walking toward the bathroom.
My fingers hovered on the handle for a second, then I glanced back. He was still watching. I didn’t give him the satisfaction of a reaction. I stepped inside and shut the door behind me.
The hot water hit my skin like it was trying to rinse away what couldn’t be undone. Steam curled up the tiled walls, blurring the mirror and softening the edges of everything, but not enough to blur out the night before.
Not enough to blur out him.
I stood under the stream, hands pressed to the cool tiles in front of me, my head bowed. Every inch of me remembered—my body humming in the aftermath, bruises blooming like secrets I never meant to keep. The faint ache between my thighs, the marks on my wrists, the taste of his kiss still lingering.
And the worst part? I didn’t regret it.
That should’ve terrified me. But all I felt was… unsteady. Like I had stepped onto a road with no idea where it ended, and for once, I hadn’t checked for thecliff.
I washed slowly, methodically, as if it would give me time to breathe. To build back the walls he cracked last night. And by the time I stepped out and wrapped myself in the thick towel, I didn’t feel stronger. Just quieter.
When I opened the door and stepped back into the room, he was by the closet, speaking in low tones to a man in resort uniform. The worker was lifting the last of our luggage—his and mine—and quietly rolling them toward the door.
I paused. Rafael stood tall, shirt fitted perfectly across his back, sleeves pushed to his forearms, his voice low and even. The contrast of him in such a simple moment—it shouldn’t have made my stomach flip. But it did.
The worker gave a respectful nod and exited, and only then did Rafael glance toward me.
“You take long showers.”
“You move entire lives without asking.”
He didn’t reply, but that small smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth again. The kind that meant he wasn’t sorry. Not even close.
I dried off and dressed quickly—black jeans, a dark green top, simple makeup, hair tied back. No effort to impress. Just enough to look composed. As if last night hadn’t happened.
As if I didn’t still feel it.
He waited by the door, and as I slipped on my shoes and walked toward him, he opened it for me without a word.
