Page 62 of Isaac

"Better than good," I admit, because lying is pointless when the truth is written all over my face. "I’ve driven some V8s in the past, but this one is a beauty."

As we speed down the road, everything else fades away and all that remains is the electrifying sensation of velocity and adrenaline and an unexpected sense of unity between us.

In this bubble of roaring engines and distorted scenery, Isaac isn't the leader of a criminal empire, and I'm not a federal agent with a duty that weighs like a millstone around my neck.

But moments are just that—fleeting, ephemeral. And even as I relish the rush, I know that soon this will end. Soon the adrenaline will wear out and logic will take its place.

We pull back into the dealership's lot, the Mustang's engine purring down to a soft growl as I cut the ignition. The silence that follows is heavy, almost sacred, like the first minutes after a storm when the world's still holding its breath.

We climb out from the GT and stroll past the row of other sedans with their shiny hoods winking at us invitingly. Isaac turns to me, his eyes catching flecks of sunlight, and asks casually, "So, which one you like best?"

I glance back at the sleek black beast we just tamed together, exhaling slowly, trying not to let the words choke me. "The last one," I say, my voice more certain than I feel. "Most definitely."

Isaac's gaze follows mine, a half-smile playing on his lips as if he knows exactly what I'm thinking, as if he could see the way my pulse raced with every rev of that engine.

"Let’s find the salesman." Isaac jerks his chin toward the office building.

"We'll take the GT," Isaac declares once the fella who’s been helping us rushes outside. Isaac thumbs back toward the Mustang with a nonchalance that speaks of someone used to getting what they want. There's no discussion, no haggling; just the expectation of obedience.

I should feel nothing. This isn't my world, these aren't my choices. I'm here to observe, to report, to take down. But as Isaac finalizes the deal with a firm handshake and the flash of a platinum card, something twists inside me—envy, longing, or maybe it's just the bitter taste of a life I can never truly own.

The final scrawl of a pen, the soft click of a closing folder, and we're stepping out into the sun-soaked parking lot with Isaac holding the key fob in the curl of his palm.

I squint against the light, my head still echoing with numbers and terms I won't remember.

"Hopefully, I could help," I say, rubbing the back of my neck. "I don’t know if I’m much of a car buff…"

"But you like it though?" Isaac asks, stepping into my personal space.

"It’s a great ride."

"Good." He reaches out to take my hand and places the key fob into my palm. "Because it’s yours."

I'm hit with a wave of disbelief, reality skidding sideways for a second like tires on ice during blizzard. "No, Isaac, I can't—" The refusal dies on my lips. This isn't how things are done, not in his world.

"Consider it a thanks. For saving my life." His words are granite, filled with unuttered rules of debts and honor.

It's a gift Dallas should decline, but the weight of the keys feels right, an unexpected fit. And Hawk would accept the car.

I close my fingers around the fob. "Thank you," I manage, the words scraped from somewhere deep, somewhere that doesn't belong to Special Agent Dallas Bradley. Or maybe it does.

"You’re welcome."

We stand like this under a ruthless Nevada sun, staring at each other for a few heartbeats, something happening between us.

"You hungry?" Isaac finally asks.

"Could eat," I admit, following, the tension slipping from my shoulders one coil at a time.

"There’s a great place down the street," he throws over his shoulder, moving toward the SUV and typing something on his cell phone. "Meet me there. Sending you the address."

"Never tried a burrito that could double as a dumbbell?" I comment, eyeing the hefty roll on Isaac's plate. The scent of spices and seared meat blend with the diner's warmth, a cozy contradiction to the industrial chaos of the outside.

Isaac chuckles, his fork poised like a weapon over his rice. "Better than lifting weights at the gym. At least you get to eat the evidence of your workout."

"True," I concede, biting into my own less threatening taco. "But if I start bench pressing my lunch, take me out back and put me out of my misery."

"Deal," he says, his grin sharp and quick, gone as fast as it came.

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