Page 97 of The Devil's Thorn
“You expect trouble?”
“I expect him.”
Which is worse. Because Rafael doesn’t do anything by accident. And if he wants to talk after tonight? Then he wants something more than a debrief.
The drive continues in silence, broken only by the soft hum of tires on asphalt and the steady pulse of my thoughts.
I close my eyes briefly, letting the weight of everything settle. Alessio’s words. Leo’s questions. Rafael’s murmur at my ear like a promise disguised as a command. And the sting of power in his voice.
By the time we reach the outer gate of the Romanov estate, I’ve reset everything. My expression. My posture. My mask.
I’m not walking into a meeting. I’m walking into the lion’s den. And this time?
I don’t plan on leaving empty-handed.
The car slows to a stop just outside the tall iron gate. It’s black, like everything else he touches. Sleek. Sharp. Unapologetic. And locked.
The lights lining the edge of the stone path flicker softly, revealing only enough of the sprawling estate behind it to suggest something bigger waits in the dark.
A figure approaches from a smaller side gate tucked next to the main one. The man is dressed in black, sleeves rolled up just enough to reveal a tattoo winding around one forearm. He doesn’t speak right away. He doesn’t need to. He’s waiting.
Not for them. Just for me.
He opens the smaller gate with a loud clank and steps aside, gesturing silently for me to come through.
But thecar gatestays shut. The message is clear.
“Only you,” Kellan mutters under his breath beside me.
“Mmhmm.”
“You don’t have to?—”
“Yes, I do.”
I open the door slowly, the night air brushing against my legs as I step out, heels clicking against the gravel.
Ash leans forward between the seats, resting an arm on the back of mine. “Be careful in there.”
“Always.”
I look between them once more. Two shadows. My shadows. Then I turn toward the man waiting at the open gate and step through without hesitation.
He doesn’t introduce himself. Just gestures for me to follow, and I do.
The path is long. Lined with dark rose bushes, clipped perfectly at the base, stretching along the stone walkway. The scent is subtle—almost cold.
Rafael would never fill his home with sweetness. Only reminders.
We reach the front door—double black, framed in dark marble and fitted with matte brass handles. The man reaches forward and pulls one open, but he doesn’t step inside.
“He’s waiting upstairs,” he says simply. “First door on the left once you reach the second floor.”
“Thanks.”
He nods, then turns and walks back down the path like the scene never happened.
The door clicks shut behind me. Soft. Final. And just like that—I’m inside Rafael Romanov’s estate. Alone.
