Page 42 of The Devil's Thorn
Nikolai.
His presence rolls over the table like a slow storm. Dark suit, clean lines, expression carved from stone.
He stops beside Rafael’s chair and nods once before his eyes shift to me.
Cool. Calculating. Curious.
“You’ve replaced me already?” he says to Rafael, tone dry.
Rafael lifts his glass without looking at him. “She doesn’t speak unless I ask her to.”
“And yet she’s still far easier to look at,” Nikolai replies.
I offer him a polite, neutral look. Nothing more.
He holds it for a moment, then smirks slightly and sits beside Rafael, his arm resting lazily along the back of the booth.
I stay where I am. Still. Watching. Not blinking.
The table chat shifts into business—something about shipments and a new route being negotiated. I let the words wash over me, listening but not reacting. Every name. Every city. Every nod. I catalog them all. Then, from Rafael’s left, the woman in red leans in. Her hand grazes his arm as she tilts her head and smiles like her lips were made to be bitten.
“Why don’t we take a break,” she purrs, her voice soft and thick with suggestion, “and go upstairs? I promise I’ll make it worth your time.”
The smile doesn’t reach her eyes.
Rafael doesn’t even look at her.
He lifts his glass, takes a slow sip, then sets it down again.
“No.”
That’s it. One word. No explanation. No apology.
The woman blinks once, her lips parting slightly like she’s not used to being dismissed. But he’s already looking away. Conversation flows around her like she was never there.
And I?
I don’t smile.
But Ifeelit.
Because now I know—when Rafael wants something,he doesn’t share his attention.
And tonight, it was on me.
Nikolai’s phone buzzes, and he glances at it once, sighs under his breath, and rises from the table.
Rafael doesn’t acknowledge it, but I notice the subtle glance he sends after him.
A few minutes pass. Then Nikolai returns, leaning down and murmuring something low into Rafael’s ear.
I see the shift immediately.
The way Rafael’s jaw tenses. The way his fingers curl once around the rim of his glass.
He stands. Smooth. Composed.
But with purpose.
