Page 74 of Isaac

He closes his eyes and brushes his mouth over mine again. Until I can’t take this torture anymore. I tilt my head and return the favor.

He stops teasing.

Oh, it’s on now.

The taste of his breath fills my mouth as our lips crash together, a cataclysm of need. There's nothing gentle about this kiss. It's a clash, teeth and tongue, the raw scratch of desire. My mouth opens under his, a silent plea for more of this filth, this perfect profanity we create together. He tastes like sin and redemption, like something forbidden that I've been starving for without knowing its name.

The kiss deepens, and I'm drowning in sensation, in the slick heat of his tongue stroking mine, the sharp bite of his teeth pulling at my lower lip from time to time. My hands, no longermy own, find his hair, fingers tangling in the disarray of those messy dark waves, tugging him closer, as if there could be no distance between us at all, as if we could meld into one being driven by hunger alone.

There's a growl in my throat, a sound that belongs to the animalistic part of me that wants to claim and be claimed. Isaac's hands drop from the wall, rough and insistent as they pull at my clothes, mapping the landscape of my body with a possessiveness that ignites my internal conflict into a blaze.

For just this moment, I let go of the tethers holding me to who I should be, surrendering to the chaos of what I am with him. Isaac Thoreau, Blade, the enigma with turbulent eyes, has become a paradox of a man. My paradox. In his arms, I am lost and found, and for now, that's all I dare to understand.

CHAPTER 22

ISAAC

The slam of the front door echoes through the cavernous foyer, a hollow thud that feels like a punctuation mark at the end of another mundane high school day. He’s home, but it's not relief that floods his veins—it never is. It's the usual cocktail of apprehension and the faint hope that maybe today will be different.

His sneakers don't creak on the marble as he tiptoes toward the grand staircase, ears pricked for any sign of life. The silence is thick, suffocating, telling him Mother is probably locked away in her art studio, lost in canvas and colors—her refuge from everything... including her only son.

Quietly, he climbs the stairs, two at a time, bypassing family portraits that are lies trapped in expensive gilt frames.

In his room, he shrugs off the backpack and exhales. Here, in this space, he can pretend to be a normal fifteen-year-old boy. At least for a little while until things start going to shit like they always do.

He glances at the trophies and medals lining the walls and shining mutely in the evening light that filters through the closed curtains. He flicks on the desk lamp and collapses onto the bed, reaching for his phone.

Somehow, it feels cool against the clammy palm of his hand. Thumb is already swiping with muscle memory.

Hey, he taps out, the word so innocuous, so loaded with things unsaid.

Hey :), comes the reply almost instantly, from him, Alex—the boy on their basketball team who makes his stomach do somersaults with a simple emoticon.

Good game today,he taps out with a smile, even though Alex can’t see it.

Smashed 'em, Alex types back.

For a while, fingers fly across the screen while the details of tonight's game are shared between the boys. They won, but that’s not what has his heart racing. It's the way Alex smiled at him after he sunk the last three-pointer.

You were great, another text goes out to Alex right before the sound of an approaching engine slices through the flimsy veil of normalcy.

He inches toward the window, peering out between the curtains.

It's him—Jacob Thoreau, Father Fucking Dearest, stepping out of his black sedan like a harbinger of apocalypse. His bodyguard, a mountain of a man, scans the perimeter with eyes that miss nothing.

His heart hammers a frantic beat when he glances down at his phone.

Are you flirting with me, Isaac?the text reads.

His fingers hover over the screen, the buoyant bubble of what promises to be a typical teenage teasing is fractured by the stark reality waiting downstairs. A reality that wears expensive suits and reeks of danger.

GTG, he sends quickly before stashing the phone into his desk drawer. He’d love nothing more than to keep on texting,but the metallic taste of fear already has filled his mouth as he watches Jacob's dark form move toward the house.

He sits on the edge of his bed, knees bouncing in a rhythm dictated by anxiety. His ears strain for the telltale signs of Jacob's displeasure—the clink of ice in a glass, the low grumble before the tempest erupts. But there's only the ghostly echo of his own heartbeat, pounding out a staccato that seems to mock him with its constancy.

Then it begins.

Dishes crash downstairs, followed by his mother's protests and muffled sobs.

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