Page 222 of The Devil's Thorn
His fingers barely brushed the small of my back, but it felt like a brand, heat seeping through the thin silk of my dress, grounding me in a way that was as terrifying as it was familiar.
Matteo’s gaze slid over the contact like he noticed it but chose not to react. His expression remained unreadable—cool and composed—but I felt something ripple beneath the surface.
I looked between them, my pulse thrumming beneath my skin. There was a history here, and not just the kind carved in stone or whispered behind locked doors. This was personal.
Matteo shifted his stance, and his eyes returned to mine with something I couldn’t place. “Didn’t expect to see you here,” he said to Rafael. “At least not before the old man arrived.”
Old man?
My mind itched at the phrase, connecting dots that refused to form a picture.
Rafael exhaled, slow and measured. “I like to know who I’m breaking bread with before the wine is poured.”
Matteo gave a low, amused sound. “Still cautious. Or just making sure you don’t miss a chance to see who’s whispering to Viktor these days?”
Yuri said nothing, but I saw the flick of his gaze. A flash of warning. Even the air between them felt sharper now.
Rafael didn’t flinch. “Whispers are only dangerous when no one’s listening. And I always listen.”
Their exchange was calm, civil even. But the tension was in the undertone, in the way each word was measured and placed like pieces on a board.
I felt like I was watching chess with live ammunition.
Still, what struck me most was how familiar they were. This wasn’t the first time they’d stood like this—quiet jabs, veiled truths, an entire history compressed into glances and half-smirks.
They knew each other. Well. But that only made the unease in my gut coil tighter. Because the Matteo I was trying to read—the man who seemed amused and effortless and unreadable—had just shared a past with the man I was supposed to trust with everything, and I knew almost nothing about it.
Matteo cocked his head slightly, gaze sliding back to me. “You always bring your shadows with you, Romanov, or is she something else?”
Something in Rafael shifted, barely, like a current beneath still water. “She’s exactly what she needs to be,” he said, voice low and final.
He didn’t look at me when he said it. But I felt it all the same.
Matteo arched a brow. “Interesting choice of words.”
I stayed still, my expression calm, but my mind was moving fast. Matteo was testing him—or me—or both of us. Poking at whatever this was between Rafael and me, like he was looking for a weakness.
And Rafael? He wasn’t giving him anything. Just calm. Ice. Precision. The kind that scared people more than any outburst could.
“I didn’t expect you to show your face so soon,” Rafael said after a beat, his gaze fixed on Matteo now. “Especially not after Barcelona.”
Barcelona?
The word dropped like a stone in a still pond, and I caught the brief flicker in Matteo’s eyes. A muscle in his jaw twitched.
So, he wasn’t completely unreadable after all.
Matteo gave a noncommittal shrug. “You know how it is. Plans change. People die. The usual.”
Rafael’s silence was heavy. Deliberate. But when he finally spoke, his voice was calm. “Careful, Silvani. You start sounding too much like Viktor, and people might get confused about which side you’re on.”
Matteo smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “I’m not on anyone’s side, Romanov. I prefer to watch the fire and decide later which ashes are worth stepping over.”
I felt my fingers tighten around my clutch, pulse echoing in my ears. This man—Matteo—wasn’t like the others circling this world. He didn’t crave power in the way Viktor did. No, he thrived on the edge of it. Watching. Waiting. Smiling.
Rafael didn’t speak right away. Instead, he turned his head slightly, his profile sharp under the chandelier’s light.
And then, so softly I almost missed it— “You always were good at running late. And playing both ends.”
