Page 8 of The Devil's Thorn
Maybe it’s her.
I glance across the small room. The shadows fall gently across the bookshelf, the lace curtain drifting slightly in the breeze. This place has always made space for my exhaustion. Anna never pries. She never judges. She just waits—with warmth and honey and quiet.
She’s the only person who never asked me to be more than what I was in that moment.
And tonight, I needed that.
Not Kellan’s logic. Not Ash’s fire. Just Anna’s soft steadiness.
I turn my head to the side, pressing my cheek into the pillow. My body’s heavy with tension I didn’t realize I was carrying.
The weight of the rifle.
The weight of my choice.
I can still see Rafael’s face. Not the version I painted in my head all these years—the villain, the butcher, the boy who grew into a monster—but the man who looked almost… bored.
Calm.
Untouchable.
Until something shifted in his eyes.
And I couldn’t do it.
I close my eyes and try to pull that guilt tighter around me, wrap it like armor, but it slips through my fingers every time. And somewhere underneath it all, something else coils inside me.
Curiosity.
Doubt.
Need.
I exhale slowly, about to let myself drift, when the vibration of my phone against the nightstand jolts through the room like a crack of thunder.
I reach for it blindly, flipping it open.
Kellan.
My voice is groggy. “Yeah?”
The background noise hits first—the low hum of an engine, a soft beep of a turn signal.
“You sound like you just got punched by sleep,” Kellan says, voice low and dry.
“Didn’t even get to the first round,” I mumble, rubbing my eyes. “Why are you calling?”
“Because your life’s about to change, sweetheart.”
I sit up. “What?”
“I got you in.” There’s pride in his voice. “Interview’s today. In an hour.”
I blink. “Wait—today?”
“Mmhm.”
“Kellan, it’s—” I glance at the clock. “It’s not even six.”
