Total pages in book: 87
Estimated words: 80451 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 402(@200wpm)___ 322(@250wpm)___ 268(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 80451 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 402(@200wpm)___ 322(@250wpm)___ 268(@300wpm)
“So…” he says, voice a low murmur. “You still okay?”
I rest my head against the seat, meeting his gaze in the dim glow of passing streetlights. “Yeah,” I answer, a small smile playing on my lips. “More than okay. That was… unexpected.”
He nods, his attention flicking back to the road. “We’ll probably hear from Devereaux soon, if Rolfe’s interested.”
“Right,” I say, suddenly aware of how my hands keep clenching in my lap, craving some sort of outlet for all the adrenaline still coursing through me.
Silence falls, thick with unspoken thoughts. We’ve just waded into a world of secret parties, clandestine deals, and raw desire. I can’t deny the thrill, the rush of walking that edge. But there’s another edge I’m dancing on too—the one between me and Lincoln.
I close my eyes, the memory of his hand on my thigh, his breath against my ear, flickering behind my eyelids. The line between pretense and reality is blurring, and I’m not sure how much longer we can pretend it’s all for the mission.
Yet for tonight, at least, I’ll let the hum of the engine and the soft hush of the tires on the road lull me into a momentary calm. Tomorrow, we’ll face whatever comes next—together.
Chapter 9
Lincoln
I rub the back of my neck as I step through the front door of the safe house, the echo of the club’s pulsing bass still thudding in my veins. The darkness outside seems infinite, only broken by the dim porch light we left on. The chill of the night air has already seeped into my jacket. It’s not freezing, but the temperature shift is enough to remind me we’re no longer in the thick, sultry heat of Club Greed. We’re back to reality—whatever that means for Isabel and me.
I move aside so she can slip in before me. The moment she crosses the threshold, her heels click on the hardwood, and I catch a subtle whiff of her perfume, something warm and floral that I’m pretty sure is going to haunt me for days. I flick on the foyer light, revealing the cozy interior. Everything is exactly the way we left it: living room neat, kitchen clean, laptops piled on the table. Like we never even left. Yet I feel like an entirely different man than the one who walked out the door earlier.
Isabel closes the door, latches it, then turns to me with a small, exhausted smile. I see the flush of the night’s excitement still lingering in her cheeks. Under the overhead bulb, her black dress shimmers faintly, showcasing every graceful curve. My gaze can’t help sliding over her, taking in the bare skin at her shoulders and the hint of leg visible through the dress’s slit. A wave of need tightens my chest.
I clear my throat, shrugging out of my jacket. “You want something to drink? Water, maybe?”
She exhales softly, setting her clutch on the side table. “Yeah. That’d be nice. My throat’s scratchy from trying to talk over all the noise.”
I nod, heading to the kitchen. The safe house is open-concept, so it’s only a few steps away—just enough distance for me to catch my breath. Maybe calm the relentless drum of desire pounding in my chest. Between the dancing, the heated stares, and the pretense of being a couple in that club, I’m more keyed up than I’ve been in a long time. Certainly more than I should be while on a job.
I grab two glasses from the cupboard and fill them at the sink. My mind replays the moment in the club when I slid my hand onto Isabel’s thigh, and she pressed closer to me like she couldn’t get enough. The memory still sizzles in my veins, making me grit my teeth. I’m supposed to be protecting her, not wanting her.
When I turn around, she’s leaning against the edge of the kitchen island, arms folded under her chest. Her eyes flick up to mine, a hint of amusement there. “You okay?”
“Yeah,” I mutter, handing her a glass. “Just… that was overstimulating.”
She nods, taking a long sip of water. “Tell me about it.” Then she sets her glass down, lips curving. “I thought we did pretty well, though. With Devereaux, I mean.”
Right—Devereaux. Our entire mission hinged on making an impression on that guy, and apparently, we did. My gut still twists at how brazen we were, name-dropping “Angelus,” essentially forcing his hand to let us into Rolfe’s orbit. But if we want to track Morris Rolfe and figure out who’s been threatening Isabel, we didn’t have much choice.
“We did,” I agree quietly, taking a gulp of my own water. It soothes my own dry throat and gives me a moment to think. “I can’t believe you used my last name, though.”
She snickers, brushing a stray strand of hair off her forehead. “It just came out. ‘Isabel Zane’ sounded good in the moment. I just didn’t want to rope Dean into this plan.”