Page 72 of Isaac

"Unlike you, I take care of business," I retort, my blood heating at his accusation. This cockroach just won’t let it be. "Like patching up Flynn while you stood around flapping gums. What good's muscle if it ain't got the brains to match?"

Someone whistles from the back. "Fucking burn!" Sounds like Ricky.

Hector cackles. "Hawk’s got some words to say!"

"Five hundred on Hawk."

"Thousand on J!"

They are placing bets all of a sudden while Jeremy and I are locked into a standoff in the middle of the club floor with neon lights blinking all around us.

"You’re a fucking cop. And I’m going to prove it," he supplies, his eyes drilling a hole in my skull. Fucker is intimidating up close, especially with that gnarly scar.

"You’re paranoid," I tell him.

He slams his palm into my chest and the force of the impact sends me back a step.

"Enough!" The word explodes from Isaac as he strides into the center of the tension—Blade, in every sense, cutting through the bullshit. He whips out his gun, the gleam of metal silencing the room faster than any shout could.

"Both of you, cut the crap or I'll cut it for ya," Isaac commands, his eyes dark embers beneath furrowed brows. His gaze lands heavy on me, and something unspoken passes between us, raw and jagged.

"Out," he orders, still looking at me. Not a request. A command from the man who holds power over life and death in this twisted sanctuary.

"Are you serious right now?" I cry out.

I know I need to keep my cool and do what I’m told especially with drunk dumbass Jeremy throwing accusations that couldruin it all. But I’m wired, fire is rushing through my veins right now instead of blood.

My gaze remains on Isaac for a few more seconds, then I glare at Jeremy, letting him see the challenge in my eyes, before turning on my heel and marching out. The door slams behind me, the thud echoing in my chest. I can feel the anger coiling tight, ready to strike, as I stalk through the dim corridors of Purgatory.

"Hawk!" Isaac's voice follows me in the form of a rough plea that scrapes against my composure.

But I don't stop.

I won't.

Not now when I need to keep my head, when every instinct screams to confront, to claim, to collide with whatever madness this dance with Isaac is leading me toward. I can still feel the damn imprint of his lips, the sensation of his touch—a brand on my skin, a taunt to my senses.

And when he’s close, everything—emotions and memories—just multiply. Multiply to the point I can’t contain any of it.

"Damn it, Hawk, will you just hold up?" Isaac's hand lands heavily on my shoulder just as I’m about to round the corner. He takes advantage of the way my body is angling and spins me to face him. We're inches apart, breathing the same charged air.

His stupid silk shirt is undone, the top three buttons as always, showing off the mark on his neck and his perfect chest. It’s enough to be a tempting invitation to sin—to betray everything that I am. Except the part where I know what I like. And out of all the men, must it be him? Long legs, sheathed in slacks. Dark hair, disheveled, as if he's clawed through it infrustration. And then there's the gun in his hand, a paradox of danger and defense.

His eyes are turbulent pools where hurricanes are born, and I can hear my own heart thrashing against my rib cage, threatening to break free.

"By kicking me out, you just told everyone I don't belong," I spit the words at him. I can’t be bothered with appearances right now. Or staying cool.

"I'm sorry, okay?" he offers almost genuinely. "But it saved your ass back there, didn’t it?" The sharpness of his gaze softens into something that looks like regret. "Jeremy won’t leave you alone."

"Oh please, save it," I counter, standing my ground while the undercurrents of this place pull at my ankles. "You still think I need your protection?"

Isaac steps closer, completely erasing the small gap I've meticulously measured in heartbeats. My pulse throbs with anger, or is it something else? It's hard to tell when he's so near, blurring all the lines. His nose is almost brushing mine as he stares at me and my frustration from the lack of control for the first time in my life is getting to me. I feel like a fourteen-year-old. All stupid and hormonal.

"Looking at me won’t fix this shit," I whisper angrily out at him, gesticulating erratically, acutely aware of how childish I must appear for a grown, thirty-two-year-old man.

"Well, if anything, at least I can derive some visual pleasure from looking at you when you’re this close," he says, deadpan.

I almost…almost roll my eyes but I don’t because other things happening to my body draw my attention. Something unusual in the southern region. Fuck.

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