Page 39 of The Devil's Thorn
I reach for the Dalmore 25, the same bottle I chose before, and pour with careful precision. The smell of it fills the air—smoky, deep, warm. It reminds me of control. Of silence. Of the fire I’m stepping into willingly.
I set the bottle down, slide the glass onto the tray, and turn to walk back toward the table.
My body is moving on autopilot, steps clean, posture straight. I’ve spent years preparing to be the kind of woman who can walk into hell without blinking.
But what I didn’t prepare for—is the interruption.
He comes from the left, stumbling into my path like a storm without direction. Mid-forties. Expensive suit worn too loose, cologne that clings to him like a lie. Drunk.
He sees the tray. Seesme.
“Hey,” he slurs, grin spreading across his face like it belongs there. “You heading somewhere, gorgeous?”
I don’t stop walking. “Excuse me.”
But he’s faster than he looks.
His hand darts out and wraps around my wrist, firm and sweaty. The tray tilts in my other hand, but I manage not to spill a drop.
His grip tightens. “No need to rush. I’ve got a suite upstairs. Real nice one.”
I blink once. “Let go.”
“Aw, come on. Don’t be like that. I’ll make it worth your time. You know who I am?”
I smile tightly. Polite. Controlled. “No.”
“Exactly.” He chuckles. “So maybe you should be a little nicer.”
He leans closer, breath soaked in whiskey, and I have to lock every muscle in my body not to recoil. The tray in my hand istrembling now, not from fear—but from how hard I’m holding back.
“You’ve got a mouth on you,” he murmurs. “Bet it tastes sweet.”
I try again—softer this time. “Sir, I’m assigned to a table. If you don’t let go, I’ll be forced to call?—”
He tugs on my wrist, pulling me half a step toward him. “You don’t need to call anyone, baby. Just say yes.”
I inhale once, sharp and slow.
I’m one second fromsnapping.From throwing this glass into his face and letting the consequences fall where they may.
But I don’t have to.
Because a shadow moves beside me. Quiet. Heavy. Unmistakable.
A voice follows—low, cold, final.
“Let her go.”
The man’s grip loosens instantly, like he just realized he stepped off a cliff.
I turn my head, slowly.
Rafael stands there.
No jacket. Shirt sleeves rolled up to his forearms. One hand in his pocket. The other by his side, flexing once before curling back into calm.
His face doesn’t shift. But his eyes?
