Page 29 of Isaac

DALLAS

A handful of days have slipped away since the warehouse incident when I kept Flynn alive. My mind has become a skipping record, always jumping back to Isaac as if stuck on the same track.

We haven’t spoken but I was trapped in the trajectory of his stare several times during my shifts at Purgatory. His gaze—unyielding and consuming—is one hard thing for me to shake off. Like an electrifying current zapping across the haze-filled club, locking onto me as its target. Each stolen look resembles a silent lightning strike, pushing my heart into a wild rampage of terrifying exhilaration.

The defender of justice in me knows he’s about to get what he wants—to become a part of Isaac Thoreau’s inner circle. But the man in me—without the badge or the mission hanging over his head—is somewhat terrified, scared of what’s simmering right under the surface.

In the warehouse bathroom, Cody "Hawk" Smith felt it with every fiber of his body. Smelled the lingering cologne and the aftershave.

Jeremy's eyes were no less piercing, serving their own brand of intimidation that felt a lot like hate and distrust.

"Hey, Hawk," Ricky calls out to me during another fun night at Purgatory. "Isaac wants to see you in his office."

I nod, trying not to show my eagerness too much. "Did he say what it’s about?"

"No clue." Ricky claps my back and lowkey yanks me over to me. "If I were to guess, he’ll probably give you a bonus for saving Flynn’s life."

It’s happening, Dallas. It’s all finally happening. After weeks of getting nowhere, you’re getting your chance.

My chest tightens a little as I make my way through the pulsating crowd and into the rear of the club. While I walk, I mentally remind myself why I'm here: to uncover information about the Hellhounds and Yuri Solovey's connection.

I pause in front of the door and take a deep breath before knocking.

I hear a muffled "come in" and I step inside.

On the outside, I’m composed but my stomach is churning. Immediately, I want to inspect everything in this office, every shelf, every document, every hidden crevice. Sadly, I can’t afford to look suspicious when I’m so close to getting to my target.

Instead, I keep my gaze on Isaac.

He sits casually behind his desk in a high-backed chair, studying me with those smoldering eyes that seem to know many things not a lot of people his age do. People his age are still figuring out their career paths or dating. He's running an empire.

Wordlessly, Isaac gestures to a chair opposite him.

"I'm good," I reply, unwilling to relinquish the slight advantage of power balance my height gives me in this moment.

"Suit yourself." He leans back, his palms still resting on the wooden surface of the table. "I think we should clear some things up."

There's obvious tension between us, palpable, wires pulled taut. And I can almost physically feel the space separating Thoreau and me heating up.

My skin prickles as if trying instinctively to wick away this uncomfortable sensory reminder of what we really are at its core—enemies.

I tip my chin in agreement to his earlier comment as my eyes roam over Isaac, taking in his outfit; a black shirt with the top three buttons open, revealing a hint of his toned chest. I can’t see his dress slacks but I imagine they fit him perfectly like they always do. Rolex around his wrist glints in the muted light. A silver chain for some reason draws my attention to his defined collarbones peeking from under the soft fabric of the shirt. The black leather jacket is a nice touch. For someone who prefers to stay in the shadows most of the time, the man can dress.

As my gaze ghosts over his face, I find myself studying his lips. They're not full and not thin, just the right size, pursed into a tight curved line.

I realize it’s not the first time I’m staring at him—well, parts of him—longer than acceptable.Like what the fuck, Dallas?

"Flynn’s recovering," Isaac speaks, breaking the loaded silence.

"Yes, Ricky told me he's on the mend," I respond. "I'm glad I could help."

"Good thing you were there."

He keeps on looking at me as if he wants me to read his lips, to actually guess what he means and it’s not what just came out from his mouth. He keeps on looking at me as if this is a game and it’s my turn. My turn to tell him what he wants to hear.

A heavy, stifling sort of quiet descends upon us once more—it's like we're trapped in the thick smoke that follows a roaring fire, choking on words unsaid and stares gone unmet. Every ticking second unwinds the coil of uncertainty within me,spreading silent echoes that bounce off the bare walls and taunt my eardrum.

"I don’t want to see any more men die," I finally supply after my mind has gone to hell and back trying to understand what would make Isaac want to keep this going.

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