Page 78 of Isaac

I stride to the end of the breakfast bar, where shadows cling to the walls like old secrets and stains that never got washed off. The barista, a girl with more piercings than years, gives me a nod that's part recognition, part challenge. As if I’m one of them, one of the misfits. Perhaps, the splash of ink on my skin is what causes that.

I don’t overthink it.

I order black coffee, no sugar, and a toasted bagel, plain.

As I wait, fingers drumming on the cool cracked marble, my thoughts betray me, spiraling back to Isaac. To that raw, scorching moment when his breath hitched against my neck, and his words cut through the haze of lust.

Your touch—you know what it does? It doesn't repulse me.

His confession struck like a blade, sharp and unexpected. A revelation that should have sent me reeling but instead tethered me closer to him.

I shouldn't dwell on it, shouldn't let the ghost of his scent—an intoxicating mix of Paco Rabanne and latent danger—haunt me.

But it does.

It fucking does.

I can still feel the heat of his body pressed against mine in that bathroom, the marble of the sink counter imprinting against my lower back as if trying to brand me with that memory. His fingers, strong and skilled, wrapped around my cock, drawing moans from my lips I didn't know I could make. Isaac Thoreau, young and commanding, a paradox in flesh and blood who should be nothing more than a target to me.

A target, yet here I am, grappling with the weight of something unnamed that coils in my gut whenever he's near. The intensity of his gaze, those smoldering brown eyes that seem to look right through me, as if he knows the very core of who I am—or who I'm pretending to be. They just choose to keep quiet.

My mind spins while I try to push the recollections of the heated encounter down and concentrate on the task at hand—my meeting with Nicole.

I can't afford the luxury of contemplation. I’ve already gone too far. I’ve engaged in a sexual activity with a target, which is a huge no. Not when every second counts, not when every beat of my heart whispers "traitor" to the oath I've sworn to uphold.

Unwillingly, I tear my thoughts away from the man whose touch unravels me, focusing instead on the bitter tang of coffee that scorches a path down my throat, grounding me in the present.

The present, where I'm a man balancing on the edge of a knife, caught between duty and desire—a fucking dangerousplace to stand. Especially when the ground beneath you is soaked with blood.

"Black coffee, please," a familiar voice orders, casual and crisp.

Nicole slides onto the stool next to mine, her presence as inconspicuous as mine. To any onlooker, we're just two strangers, alone together in the anonymity of this place crammed with at least two dozen other customers.

"Bit windy out today, huh?" she remarks to the barista who is busy with the blender and can’t hear. The tone is light, while Nicole’s eyes—sharp as flint—flicker to me for the barest second. In that glance, silent messages are transmitted and understood.

"Sure is," I reply with a shrug, my voice a stranger to my own ears. It's a dangerous game we play, speaking in code, our every word a potential tripwire.

The barista hands her the steaming mug, and Nicole wraps her hands around it, mirroring my own actions.

"Anything new?" she asks quietly, looking straight and sipping her coffee, the steam veiling her face for a moment.

"I’ve got my eyes on the prize," I mutter.

"I’m listening."

"The Hellhounds are in business with the Russians. It’s brand new and they are still nervous about working with Solovey, especially after that ambush in the parking lot."

"I heard about that. Any leads on who’s behind that little stunt?"

"I was hoping you’d shed some light on that situation. Isa—Thoreau is extra jumpy."

"How would I know what’s happening on the streets when you’re the one who has access to firsthand info?"

In the background, the barista grinds coffee beans, the machine's growl is a small distraction from the chaos in me.Nicole's presence is demanding clarity, but all I can offer right now is the ambiguity.

"They pack the guns into the machinery. Transport them across the border through the rez." After a long pause and painful contemplation, I add, "I think they have a contact there but I’m not sure who he is. And I haven’t seen the routes." I just lied to my handler, more than once. I know they deal with two people, one of them is a member of tribal police. Gabe. He probably wouldn’t be hard to track. EJ could be just a nickname. Either way, I saw both contacts. I remember their faces. I could identify them if asked.

"And Toro is the buyer?" Nicole asks.

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