Page 75 of Isaac

He imagines his mother, delicate and determined, facing the man that is supposed to be his father. Her pain, distant yet so intimately known, carves hollows in the boy’s chest where bravery should reside.

The voices travel around the house, to and fro, for a little while.

He curls up on his bed, pillow over his ears, trying to block out the sounds of their argument, but they are like nails on a chalkboard.

When the noise fades to a suffocating hush, his hands grip the bedsheets, knuckles white as bone, as if holding on could tie him to some semblance of control.

The footsteps that follow are heavier than any heart has a right to bear. They are the countdown to his damnation, each step a tick closer to the moment when the door opens and he appears—a silhouette framed by darkness, a shadow given form and malice.

Eyes shut, he lies in bed, motionless, waiting.

Eventually, the doorknob turns, and the boy freezes, his breath catching in his throat.

"Isaac." Jacob's voice slithers into the room, oily and dark, as the boy’s name is uttered. He hasn’t been called "son" for a whilenow and he doesn’t know why that is, but he does know Father’s presence in his room now raises the hairs on his nape.

Jacob shuts the door behind him and strides across the room. He drops into the chair like a king upon his throne, a lord of ruin in his own twisted realm.

There’s no more verbal prelude.

"Come here," Jacob simply commands, the words curdling the boy’s insides. The space between the man and the boy shrinks as the boy scrambles to stand up from the bed and fumbles toward Father, preparing himself for a ritual humiliation that wears the mask of warped paternal affection.

He already knows what Jacob wants—the vile charade that's been played out in the shadows before. And yet, the boy cannot move any further. He stops. His body rebels, refusing to partake in this grotesque communion any longer.

"Did you hear me?" Jacob’s voice slashes through his paralysis, a whip that demands obedience, even as every fiber of his being screams to be anywhere but in this room. "Get your ass in here, Isaac," Jacob growls again, his patience fraying at the edges.

The boy stands there, petrified, as if his feet have grown into the floorboards. His breath is shallow and sharp, like shards of glass in his chest. His mind races, but his limbs are heavy with the dread of what's to come.

Even though he knows that the sooner he starts, the sooner it will be over.

"Here. Now." The command is a bullet fired without remorse. "Get on your knees."

It's the metallic glare of the gun that jolts the boy from his trance when Jacob pulls it out from under his suit jacket and places it on the armrest. Its muzzle is staring at the boy, a grim reminder that defiance isn't an option.

With legs shaking, he plunges to his knees.

His hands tremble, fumbling with the leather of the belt, clumsy in their haste.

"Look at you, all shaky and eager," Jacob's voice slinks through the air, filled with mockery. His hand, calloused and unyielding, ruffles the boy’s hair with a perverse tenderness that makes the boy’s stomach churn. "Doesn't take long for a bitch to learn, huh?"

The other hand, rough as gravel, tilts his chin upwards, forcing him to meet his gaze, which is cruel and alight with sadistic amusement. "You’ve grown… You must be good and ready by now, Isaac. Your hole... itching for it, right?" His tone is venomous, each word a barbed wire wrapping around the boy’s throat.

He can only muster a whimper, a pathetic sound that betrays his complete terror.

"I can’t hear you," Jacob hisses out. "Speak up, boy. You want to ride daddy's cock? Don’t you, bastard?"

The present engulfs me with the distinct scent of sex and cologne mingling between Hawk and me as we tumble through the door and crash against the cold marble of Purgatory's bathroom. My breath comes out ragged, haunted by ghosts I can never escape. But for the first time in years, I’m wanting to try this. To push my own limits. To see if Jacob still has a hold on me, even though he’s been in the grave—where I put him—for over a decade.

Hawk’s lips are insistent against mine, a desperate warfare of need and forbidden desire. The kiss steals the oxygen from my lungs, yet it's the only thing keeping the darkness at bay.

Here, with Hawk, it's a different dance—one where I try to lead and he willingly follows. Even though I'm not sure whereI stand when it comes to this. I haven't allowed myself to experiment, to see what I truly like.

"Isaac—" he murmurs against my mouth, his voice a sexy rumble that vibrates through me, awakening something primal.

"Shut up," I breathe back, silencing him with another searing kiss.

Our bodies speak a language older than words, each touch rewriting histories etched in scars.

I push Hawk against the marble slab, pinning him to it. I need to be the one directing this game. Whatever it is. My fingers trace the contours of his muscles under his shirt like I'm learning braille. They say the gun makes the man, but it's not until he has a full body shiver from the brush of metal against his inner thigh that I feel in control—like I can orchestrate the chaos within.

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