Page 68 of Isaac

"Family," I muse, pausing for a heartbeat. "Was I really ever part of this family, Uncle?" I ask, looking the man in the eyes. My voice is a blade honed on resentment. "Jacob didn't think so."

"Your father is dead," Maurice states coldly. He flicks his hand dismissively as if swatting away the memory of his younger brother like an irritating fly.

But the pain isn't a fly. It's a vulture that's been feasting in me for years, chomping down to bone and marrow. Dead he may be, but Jacob Thoreau haunts me still, sick memories woven into the dark web of my mind, each thread a reminder of wounds that weep beneath the surface. Wounds no one can see.

I feel the pull of sudden anger and purpose knitting together inside me. The study seems to close in, the expensive artwork leering from the walls, silent witnesses to the battle between blood.

"If Tucci—or anyone else—thinks they can take me out, I’ll end them. I’m telling you that right now."

Maurice makes a sound I don’t care to decipher, the edges of my vision tinged red with the effort of keeping my composure.

With nothing more to be said, I turn on my heel and leave him there, sitting in his leather chair, surrounded by opulence bought with blood money. The heavy door closes behind me with a finality that echoes in my chest.

As I stride across the manicured lawns of the estate, the arriving night feels alive with the whispers of old ghosts and the rustle of secrets in the leaves. The perverted darkness of this world I never wanted clings to me like second skin. I’ve learned how to make it my own.

I am more than anger—I am resolve, crystallized and sharp. With every step, I feel the weight of the mantle I've taken upon myself. It is not just about survival now; it is about ascendance. To rise from the ashes of the past, one must be willing to stoke the fires of vengeance.

And as the gates of the Thoreau estate close behind me when I drive past it, I embrace the night, letting it cloak me in its obsidian hug. The road ahead is dangerous, but I’m called Blade for a reason. That name was forged in the moment of steel and flesh colliding eleven years ago, the moment blood painted floors and walls of my childhood home, covering up all the dirt, all the sickness that lived there. The sickness that was Jacob Thoreau.

Waves of fury and helplessness crash over me as I storm through Purgatory's back halls. In my mind's eye, Uncle Maurice's words lash out again, cold and unyielding, but they are just the echo of a much older pain—the one that refuses to be laid to rest.

He’s washing his hands off. It’s clear as day.

I’m on my own now.

I push the break room door open, for some strange reason expecting solitude, expecting to be in a place to organize my thoughts. I don’t know why I’m here instead of my office where serenity is guaranteed. In this room, it’s a game of chance if all of the guys are working the floor. But my feet seem to have taken charge and decided I need to be in the break room where Hawk is changing into his suit.

I halt in the center, my chest on fire, bright lights blinding me for a moment as I direct my gaze at the man that has been living in my head rent free these past few weeks.

Hawk’s holding his T-shirt in his hands, staring right back at me. Those blue eyes, big and ocean-deep, are making my insides warm and shaky. His torso is mapped with lean muscle and there’s that gruesome scar on his right abdomen, skin discolored, lines crisscrossing the side of his trim waist, wrapping around it like a belt. It’s fucking beautiful.

He's fucking beautiful.

"Isaac?" He pauses mid-motion, his eyes holding mine. "Everything alright?"

I can't answer—can't articulate what’s inside me. I’m angry at being stuck in this life all of a sudden. Angry at Uncle Maurice. Angry at Tucci. Angry at Georgie. Angry at this attraction to Hawk.

It gnaws at my resolve, defies the defenses I've spent a lifetime erecting. It's a want that terrifies me, not for its intensity, but for its ability to make me forget the past… and then make me remember why I hate this attraction.

"Isaac?" he asks again, turning to face me and casually tossing the T-shirt on the bench.

"Fine," I rasp, the lie tasting of ash. Nothing is fine. Nothing will ever be fine.

His blue gaze doesn’t waver, and something in the constancy of his stare unravels me. My breath catches, throat tight, as if the air itself conspires to suffocate me with memories best left buried.

"Do you need anything?" he asks, stepping a little closer. Which only makes everything worse. Still, every inch forward stirs up a potent cocktail of tension and magnetic electricity in the space between us.

And talking is beyond me now. Words simply betray me. All I can do is act. In two strides, I close the distance, and my hands find his firm chest, pushing him back against the cold metal of the lockers with a resonant clang.

For a mere second, alarmed perplexity disrupts the hard-lined certainty in his eyes before I seal his lips with mine.

The kiss isn’t docile like last time. It’s not an exploration of something new. It’s not trying anymore. It’s a clashing of desperation and longing that tears at the seams of my self-control. It’s knowing. Knowing the flavor of him, knowing the warmth of his lips, and the touch of his tongue.

Hawk's initial stiffness melts almost right away under the enthusiasm of my onslaught, and when his hands come up to grip my arms, it's not to push me away but to pull me closer.

Our mouths move together, completely in sync. I bring my hands to his face and cup it to feel it against my palms. The light stubble on his jaw grazes my skin, sending skittering sparks down my spine. He tastes like rebellion, like fire-forged steel and something indefinably wild and I can’t seem to get enough.

For a moment, nothing else exists—no Uncle Maurice, no threats hidden behind corners. There's only him, solid and real beneath my hands, an anchor in the tempest of my existence.

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