Page 59 of The Devil's Thorn
Still justwatches.
And I’ve had enough.
“I’m not interested in whatever performance you think I’m here to play,” I say evenly. “If you brought me up just to fluff your ego or feed your boredom, you picked the wrong girl.”
My voice is cool, but the fire behind it flickers just a little too bright.
Rafael pauses.
Then—he laughs. Low. Quiet. Real.
It catches me off guard.
He brings his drink to his lips and takes a slow sip before setting it down again.
“Fluff my ego,” he repeats, amusement tugging faintly at the corner of his mouth. “Is that what you think this is?”
I raise a brow. “Isn’t it?”
He studies me. Hard. Deep. Unapologetically.
“No,” he says after a long moment. “If I wanted that, I’d ask one of the girls who’s already used to pretending.”
I don’t flinch. But he seessomething.
He always does.
He moves from behind the bar, slow and steady, drink in hand, and walks across the room like he’s strolling through a thought he’s not ready to share yet.
I stay still.
He glances at me again. “Where are you from?”
The question hits like a stray bullet. Too normal. Too calm.
“Does it matter?” I ask, not breaking eye contact.
He shrugs one shoulder. “Humor me.”
I offer the version I’ve rehearsed. “Upstate. Small town. Nothing impressive.”
“Parents?”
“Dead.”
A pause.
He studies me like he’s watching a painting in a museum—looking for what’s beneath the brushstrokes.
“How long have you been in the city?”
“Few years.”
“Alone?”
I lift my chin. “Is there a reason for these questions?”
Another long pause.
