20. Isaac

CHAPTER 20

ISAAC

After driving for what seems like an eternity—which is usually the case if you're being chased—I pull up to the driveway of a small cabin nestled in the mountains somewhere outside Vegas. The desert landscape stretches out behind us when I look in the rearview mirror, dotted with dry shrubs and sun-bleached rocks. The darkness is almost here and I'm glad for it. In the distance, more jagged peaks of the Nevada mountains rise.

"Where'd you find this place?" Dallas asks, his eyes scanning the cabin as he steps out of the car.

"Bought it for cash right after I got out of prison," I reply, taking in the familiar surroundings—I've only been here a couple of times. "The previous owners were a retired couple who wanted to be closer to the city. Hard to be aging away from the civilization," I clarify as we walk toward the front door. "Maurice doesn't know about this place."

I drop into a crouch and pluck one of the rocks from its spot by the door to dig out a small plastic bag with the key I'd hidden here the last time I visited.

"Smart," Dallas comments as I retrieve the key from the plastic and fumble with the lock. The door gives in with a bit of fight but that's expected from a place this old.

The cabin's interior is rustic and worn, just how I remember it. Wooden beams crisscross the ceiling, and the floor creaks under our feet. A small kitchen sits off to one side, and an ancient-looking fireplace occupies most of the far wall.

Dallas moves cautiously through the room, pushing curtains aside to inspect the windows and the view beyond. I watch him, realizing that he's making sure the house is safe and that we have a way to protect ourselves. He glances at me, pulling his gun from behind his back. "Is this all we have?"

I shake my head and motion for him to follow. We walk down the short stretch of a tight corridor, stopping at a pull-out door that leads to the basement. The stairs are ancient and rickety and creak like old bones under our boots. Luckily it's not a lot of steps.

I flip the switch on the wall to my left and a weak light from a single light bulb spills through the space.

We finish our descent and I cross to the farthest wall with a massive safe embedded into the concrete. I punch in the code and swing the heavy door, revealing an arsenal of guns, rifles, and ammo I stashed here during one of my visits.

"Jesus fucking Christ, Isaac," Dallas says after a short whistle of surprise. "Were you preparing for a war?"

"War is inevitable in my line of work," I respond, looking at the weapons that have been my secret safeguard. "I needed to be ready…" I grab another Glock and a box of bullets. "Take whatever you think we'll need to protect ourselves in case we're found."

"I sure as shit hope we don't have to," he says while inspecting my collection. I swear there's reverence on his face as he begins to pluck weapons from the safe.

After Dallas arms himself with a few Glocks, rifles, and boxes of ammo, we head back upstairs.

"Let me show you the rest of the house," I offer.

He nods and dumps the firearms on the coffee table in the main room.

"There are two more rooms," I supply as we march back to the corridor. I push the door on the right and he peeks into the space filled with bookshelves. Then we move toward the door on the left—the only one furnished as a bedroom, complete with a single queen-sized bed.

"I'll take the floor," Dallas says without hesitation.

"We'll figure it out," I reply, trying to sound unconcerned. "For now, let's just wash up. There's no proper plumbing here, just a tank, so we might not have water later." I lead him toward the third door, the bathroom, and point out a cabinet with towels and clothes. "We're about the same size, so whatever's in there should work for you."

It's all very domestic and strange and for a moment I forget that my life has been turned upside down.

Dallas nods and disappears into the bathroom and as soon as he's gone, I retrieve a bottle of old whiskey I stashed in the kitchen and walk up to the fireplace to see about getting it going before the cold devours us completely in these mountains.

I fumble for the lighter in my pocket and check on the wood inside. There's also a small stack next to the fireplace and they are surprisingly dry so I toss a few tinders in.

The dust stirred up by the movement makes my nose itch, but I don't mind.

I'm too caught up in the moment. This trivial act feels like a ritual, something ancient and familiar, yet new to me.

The first sparks don't catch initially, but then they do—a tiny flame flickers into life before growing into a fierce blaze that licks greedily at the kindling. It gobbles up the dampness and starts to spread outward with an audible crackle. Smoke tries to find its way out, swirling in the chill air until it finally rises up the chimney.

Somewhere in the house, there's a sound. A muted lullaby of cascading water concealing itself behind walls. A man taking a shower. A man I should hate with all my being, but I can't. Because he's the only one here with me when everyone else is caught up in their own drama.

Satisfied with the fireplace working, I pour myself a glass of whiskey and sink onto the old couch, taking slow sips, attempting to release the pressure that's been building in me all day.

Thoughts of my uncle's betrayal churn through my mind, scattering fragments of our family secrets that he apparently spilled to Russo. My chest aches with a blend of fury and helplessness and this feeling—it's spreading through me, to my throat, threatening to choke me.

I close my eyes for a second and attempt to detangle the mess of shifting alliances, loyalties… trusts. The mental combat is exhausting. I realize I want to finish this whiskey I have sitting in front of me and then fill the glass again and again. I realize I want to drink myself into a stupor. Anything really to erase all these fucking emotions in me.

The sound of the bathroom door opening rips me from my brooding. My gaze lifts from the glass cradled in my hand, and I watch as Dallas steps into view. He's shirtless, wearing a pair of gray sweatpants he must've found in the cabinet I showed him earlier. Water droplets glisten on his tanned skin, trailing down his neck and chest, while he casually dries his hair with a towel.

I swallow hard, feeling a surge of heat course through my bloodstream at the sight of him, so exposed. I've tried very hard not to allow myself to feel this way, not to let memories of our moments together while he was Hawk come to the surface, even fleetingly. But right now they do. I push them back down, forcing my focus onto the whiskey in my hand, but the images cling to the edges of my consciousness, refusing to be forgotten.

"Care to share?" Dallas asks, making an effort to sound casual as he grabs one of the glasses from the cabinet after looking around the main room. He tosses the towel onto a chair and pours himself some whiskey as well, then settles on the opposite side of the couch. "The shower is all yours."

"Thanks," I mutter, downing the rest of my drink in an attempt to drown the conflicting emotions threatening to overwhelm me. As the burn of the alcohol down my throat slowly fades, I find myself compelled to tell him something I refused to share earlier. I don't know why. I understand I can't fully trust him, but my gut tells me that it can't be worse than it already is. "You know," I start carefully, my voice unsteady, "you asked me about Russo and his son. Marcus. I knew him." The name leaves a bitter taste in my mouth even after all these years and I immediately want to wash it off.

"Yeah?" Dallas's face shifts a little, lines tightening ever so slightly, his interest piqued.

"Yeah," I reply, staring into the empty glass as if it holds the answers to all my problems. "We went to the same high school. He was a piece of shit, just like his old man."

There's no response from Dallas. He just sits there, looking at me, nursing his own drink, waiting for more.

"He was on the football team," I continue. "Pretty good from what I heard. Actually good enough that he had scouts from Notre Dame and a few Ivy League schools coming out to watch him play. His old man pulled some strings for it to happen of course. But still. Strings or no strings, if the player is promising, there's bound to be some interest. This obviously only fed the asshole's ego." I take a deep breath and go on. "I was on the basketball team. So we naturally didn't cross paths often. Different locker rooms and all.

"One day after their team practice, I happened to be around and saw him in the locker room with a girl. He had two of his buddies holding her down while he was... trying to rape her." The memory floods back with vivid clarity, each detail etched into my mind like a scar. "I couldn't just stand there and let it happen. I stepped in and we fought. And I guess I was too angry. Shit I saw triggered me… Broke his arm in the process. I'm still not sure if it was an accident or if I did it on purpose. I just remember being so fucking mad, my mind was spinning out. The next thing I hear is that he's out of commission. He spent the rest of the season on the bench. Fucking rapist got what was coming to him."

I pause, letting Dallas process my words, then add, "If he'd gone on to have some big-shot football career, imagine how many people would've been afraid to speak up. How many women he could've hurt? He had this look about him, like he thought he deserved to take whatever he wanted."

Silence settles over us, heavy with the scent of burning tinder and freshly washed male body. And I'm distracted for a second. "Do you think my punishment for stopping him is warranted?"

Finally, Dallas speaks, "Were you punished?"

"Was I punished?" I ask almost rhetorically. "Every fucking night until my judge was six feet under." I pause again and roll the whiskey glass between my palms, wondering if it'll slip. "Jacob made it go away. I don't know why he bothered. He could've just let the cops arrest me, send me to juvie. But I guess he figured keeping me at home was better for him." I offer a bitter smile and set the glass on the table, then run both hands over my face as if it'll help me remove all the exhaustion along with all the shit memories. But instead, they well up inside me, making me feel dirty, used, and utterly worthless. My hand shakes as I pour myself more whiskey, spilling some onto the rough wooden table. "Free fuck whenever he wanted it," I mutter, anger and humiliation churning in my gut.

Up until recently I was convinced the night Dallas took me to my condo, the night we kissed there, I kept my mouth shut. About Jacob. But now I see—from his reaction—he's known my secret for a while. I told him myself. I've just been refusing to accept the fact.

The room seems to shrink around me, my hand continues to tremble above the glass, and I grip the bottle of whiskey harder to avoid dropping it. There's movement to my right, quick and soundless, and then his heat envelops me into its dark and dangerous embrace. He reaches out, his fingers brushing against mine, guiding my hand to set the bottle down. I turn to look at him. Our eyes lock, a moment of something familiar passing between us before all my senses spike.

I snatch the gun I grabbed in the basement from under the waistband of my slacks. The cold metal presses into Dallas's cheek, a warning.

"Should I trust you?" I demand, my voice low and maybe even a little bit desperate. "Are you even trying to help me? Or are you playing me again, Agent Bradley?"

Dallas doesn't blink, doesn't flinch. He just grits his teeth and spits out an answer that feels like it's been building inside him for days. "I've burned all the fucking bridges with the Bureau. Didn't you hear Russo at your uncle's place? He's got friends in the FBI. They're turning me into a rogue agent whether it's true or not."

For a heartbeat, I hold the gun steady. "Do you want it to be true?"

He keeps on looking at me and my gut twists from the mix of fear and arousal. Is this even possible to want the one thing that has the potential to destroy you?

"It has been true since the moment you put a gun to my head that day in the bathroom of Crown Tower," Dallas whispers.

Something shifts in me, and I let the gun fall. It thuds onto the couch between us as I reach for Dallas, gripping his cheeks with both hands, pulling him closer. Our lips meet in a desperate, fierce kiss, fueled by terror, anger, and a need we can no longer deny. Dallas kisses back, just as starved, just as lost. The kiss is wild, uninhibited; any semblance of restraint abandoned.

As our mouths move together, it feels like the world outside this cabin falls away, leaving only the two of us and the storm of emotions we've unleashed once again. My thoughts race, disjointed and chaotic, struggling to make sense of what's happening between us.

Our tongues tangle, our bodies pressed close together as we explore each other with a hunger that refuses to be sated. I taste whiskey and something else, something forbidden. And this only fuels me more. My hands roam over the hard planes of his bare chest, feeling his heart pounding against my touch. He responds with his fingers digging into my hips, pulling me closer still. As close as possible.

"Fuck, Isaac," he murmurs against my lips, his voice heavy with lust and something deeper, something neither of us can fully name. "I didn't know I needed this... needed you this bad."

"Neither did I," I admit, my own voice wobbly with the weight of my longing. We're both adrift in a sea of desire, and it feels impossible to care about anything beyond the heat of his body against mine.

Dallas's hand slides down to my waist, fumbling with my already ruffled shirt, then lower, to the belt buckle. I inhale sharply as he undoes it. Then my zipper is down, his deft fingers finding my hard length through my boxers. He grasps it gently but firmly, slowly stroking me as his eyes continue to stare into mine. I feel the lust building inside me, a throbbing pulse between my legs, in my ass, and my balls, and my cock. My heart races as he tugs my pants down with his other hand freeing my hips from the confines of the fabric completely.

His fingertips start circling the head, teasing. He brings his face closer to mine, his mouth near my ear.

"Tell me you want this," he whispers hoarsely against my skin. "Tell me you need this too, Isaac."

I nod frantically because fuck, yeah I do. This man has taken control of me without even trying. There's no use hiding it anymore, hiding my sick craving to be ruined by him.

I swallow hard, my mind fading, my body's urges taking over entirely. "I want…" I don't know how to finish this sentence. I want something I can't describe. Something that's warm hot chocolate in the morning while he and I cuddle under a blanket somewhere up in the mountains like we are right now. I want no weapons and no gang war. I just want him, the only man I'm ready and willing to give myself to.

"You want me to undress you first?" Dallas supplies, and his hot breath brushing against my neck and slipping underneath my shirt has a whole lot of goosebumps cover my arms and back.

"Yes," I agree. "Let's start with the basics."

He slowly undoes the rest of the buttons on my shirt and discards it on the floor next to the couch, then motions for me to rise up and help him with the pants. Moments later, I'm standing in front of him naked. His form is unmoving as he observes me, hands eager yet softly exploring my body. Every corner, every crevice and curve.

I reach for him, clawing at his sweatpants in an impulsive jerking motion until they pool around his feet exposing his perfect, lean form. "Fair's fair," I rasp through gritted teeth, cradling his dick in my palm and familiarizing myself again with every magnificent inch.

A sharp intake of breath escapes from Dallas's lips while his eyes flutter closed momentarily in pleasure. "Have you decided?" he questions through ragged gasps, leaning into our shared space.

"Yes," I whisper, unable to resist the tight need that coils in my gut. "Fuck me. Fuck me raw and hard."

His hesitation lasts for but a heartbeat before he takes command like only he can, only he is allowed—seizing a hold of me to position for what was imminent. I am shoved forward onto the inviting curve of the couch, fingers locked firmly around the old worn backrest. Anticipation surges within me, wrapping around each nerve ending, leaving no room for anything but intense desire.

With a rough, needy sound, he spits into his hand, and slicks my entrance, preparing me for him.

"Condom?" His question floats through the air between us even as he leans closer whispering directly into my ear—hot breath tickling sensitive skin.

"Don't want a piece of rubber between us. Not now, not when I know your real name and who you are, Dallas." It feels almost liberating to say his name out loud knowing he's about to own me, knowing I want him to. "I trust you." And I mean it. I do trust him.

He answers with an animalistic growl buried deep into my neck, both his hands—still wet with spit—rove along the subtle curve of my hips. Then a finger circles my hole, prodding.

"Tell me when you're ready," he whispers.

"I am." I don't want a nice prelude. It's not who we are. I want to hurt.

The finger is replaced with a cock.

Dallas pushes inside me. I moan, a mixture of pleasure and pain rippling through my body as he invades it. The sensation is overwhelming, yet familiar—a reminder of the connection we once shared, the connection that now seems stronger than ever. My emotions churn and twist, caught between the knowledge of what we are and the undeniable link between us.

"Fuck, you're so snug, baby. Always so snug and ready for me," Dallas groans out, his voice strained as he carefully thrusts deeper, drawing another moan from me. "Your sweet little ass is incredible."

Craving a harsher intensity, fingers claw desperately at the worn couch fabric beneath them while one word escapes my trembling lips. "More." Harder even—longing to be pushed toward that bittersweet edge that merges discomfort with bliss.

A hand grabs at my hair, pulling my head back, forcing my neck to arch up. And I suddenly see stars in my eyes. The sensation from the intrusion, from his cock all the way in, brushing against my prostate, makes me want to scream. To spill unshed tears and howl like an animal.

"Are you sure?" Dallas, ever the fucking gentleman, asks.

"Yes. I'm fucking sure," I grit out.

"You asked for it, baby." He draws his cock out, igniting all the nerve endings in me in the process. Then he slams back in, hitting me with all his might. "Like that?"

Pain shoots up through me, pain mixed with that coveted pleasure that only comes after the hurt. "Again," I beg, bracing myself against his powerful strokes. My body trembles, caught between the agony of the past and the ecstasy of the present.

Dallas continues to drive into me, grunting and grabbing my hips and my shoulders. His thrusts become relentless, each powerful stroke sending uncontrollable shivers through my limbs. Our breaths come in ragged gasps, our bodies slick with sweat as we move together, driven by a primal need that defies reason.

"Fuck, Isaac," Dallas growls against my ear, his voice thick, erotic. "I'm close."

"Come inside me," I rasp, the words torn from my throat as desire consumes me. "Please, Dallas. I need it." I need for him to fuck Jacob out of my system, to fuck out all those sickos from jail that took what wasn't given, to fuck out everything that made me broken, to put me together, to glue me, to mark me as his. To erase this fragility piece-by-piece and remold me anew.

The sound of my plea seems to break something inside him. His fingers tighten like vices around my hips and he plunges into an animalistic rhythm. A savage gratification married with tender ownership. Waves of electrifying pleasure push me toward the precipice, every part of me igniting in surrender to the inevitable climax.

My name slips from Dallas's lips, his voice strained as he reaches the point of no return.

"Please," I beg again, my voice shaking as I feel the first stirrings of my own peak approaching. I grab at my cock, fisting it, jerking it viciously.

With a final, guttural groan, Dallas shudders against me, violently, each muscle tensing as he spills himself deep within me. Warm, thick cum fills my ass as I stroke myself faster. The sensation pushes me over the edge, and I cry out, my entire being alight with the blaze of our shared ecstasy as I shoot my load all over the couch. White hot threads spurt on the dark green velvet. "Fuck, fuck, fuck…" I can't breathe. My lungs are on fire, unable to function for a brief moment.

Dallas sags behind me, his chest presses to my back, his hands snake around my body, slipping down my torso, caressing my skin. "You're the best I ever had, baby. I love fucking you."

My heart, already an erratic mess, skips a beat, stalls, then starts racing again.

As the aftershocks of pure delight begin to subside, Dallas carefully pulls out, leaving me feeling both hollow and filled up. We struggle for air, our chests heaving in unison as we try to make sense of what just happened. There's cum spilling from my ass. I can feel it—hot and sticky—dripping down my inner thighs. Dallas brushes his fingers against my asshole, collecting his seed, then brings those fingers around and to my mouth and shoves them inside, between my lips. And I let him. I suck on them while he rubs his soft cock over my crack. "That's it," he rasp against the crook of my neck. "Taste me, taste yourself."

I shiver under his weight. My body's still humming but the comedown is near and I can't stay up anymore. I begin sinking onto the couch. Dallas grabs me. "I've got you."

"This wasn't how I thought this stay would go," I admit, my voice barely a whisper as I lean back against him, trying to find some semblance of stability in this madness that's become our lives.

"Neither did I," Dallas murmurs. "But at least it felt good."

"It fucking did. And we'll fucking do it again."

The cold air bites at my skin through the open window, but I'm still burning. Lying here next to Dallas, naked, with smoke floating up from between my lips, I try to steady the tremors inside me. The heat we generated on that battered couch in the living room clings to me like second skin, and the chill seeping through the cracks can't touch it.

I feel him beside me, his presence as necessary as the air I breathe, even though I know air shouldn't be this intoxicating or dangerous. My body aches with a sweet tenderness, a raw reminder of Dallas inside me, and I crave it again—his cock driving deep, claiming me in ways I never wanted to be claimed. But now, I can't imagine not being his to take. There's an addiction there, and I'm spiraling.

"Hey." His voice is low, the smoke from his own cigarette mingling with mine. "If you had another chance to vanish right now, would you do it this time? With all the shitstorm—the Bureau, Toro, those Russian bastards, and your uncle's fucking betrayal..."

It's a punch to the gut, his words. They are reminders there's a cruel world outside these walls, waiting for me. And probably him. If he's right and if he's to be turned into a rogue agent, nothing can help him. He's on the other side of the law now. On my side. Where being alive means constantly looking over your shoulder.

I let out a slow stream of smoke, watching it dissipate into nothingness.

"So Thailand?" Dallas supplies. "Would you reconsider?"

My voice is rough, the idea absurd and tempting all at once. "You think a beach and some pad thai are gonna fix this mess?"

"No, but you wouldn't be here. You would be alive. Would you still want to go?" he presses.

I let his question linger between us for a few heartbeats before posing one of my own, "Would you come with me?" I don't even know why I asked. It just seems right—to let him know how I feel.

"My family's here, man. My mom, my sister. We're not as close anymore but still…"

"My family's here too. Jeremy, Jessica, Shonda. The rest of my crew. Sister Angela. They're the life I know. Plus, Flynn's tied up in the lockup in Arizona. I can't just skip town without ensuring he's getting the best deal. At the very least, some probation and community service instead of jail time." I take another drag. "There's a noose around our necks. And every second we stay, it tightens. Both you and me." A pause. "So would you…go with me?"

Dallas is silent for a while, and from the corner of my eye I can see him finishing up his cigarette, I can see the slow rise and fall of his chest as he puts out the cigarette in an ashtray by his side.

"That's what I thought," I mutter, disappointment coiling in my stomach.

Without a word, Dallas shifts, rolling closer until he's above me, hovering like an angel or a vulture—I can't decide which. His fingers trace my face, a touch soft as shadows, and his blue eyes lock onto mine, fierce and unguarded in the low light of this tiny bedroom.

"Isaac, disappearing isn't easy. We're marked men, hunted by your uncle and the FBI. And even if we could escape, where does that leave everyone else? We can't cross the border. Not unless we sneak into Mexico but you know Toro is waiting for us there."

"Then why are you asking me to leave?"

"Because you'll be safe."

My heart jams itself into my ribs as if trying to be closer to him, to fuse with his. "I don't want to be alone," I whisper, caught in the pull of his gaze. "If we could go, just hypothetically, would you leave for Thailand with me?"

His finger drifts down to my chin, a caress that writes promises on my skin. "Yeah, Isaac, I'd go," he finally admits, and the sincerity in his voice wraps around my heart like a fist.

He paints a picture then, his words like brushstrokes on a canvas of a dream I'm scared to believe in. "We'd live on the beach, I'd cook us breakfast, we'd fish, and I'd make sure you never had to watch your back again. I'd take care of you."

"Sounds like paradise," I say, my voice thick with emotion I don't dare name. Yet, there's a question, a need clawing its way up from the depths of me. "Earlier, you said you loved fucking me. Is that all you love about me?"

Dallas leans in, his breath hot against my ear, whispering secrets meant only for the darkest corners of the night. "Of course, I remember every little fucking thing I told you. They all matter. It all matters."

I want more than words, need to know I'm more than just a fix. I grab at his jaw. "Then fucking say it," I challenge, my grip on his chin a shade too firm.

He laughs, low and seductive. "You are one needy power bottom, baby." But there's affection there, a depth that speaks of more than just physical hunger.

"And you fucking love it, don't you, Agent Bradley?"

"Want me to show you how much?" His tone is heavy with desire, a velvet-smooth invitation to lose ourselves once more in the carnal dance of dominance and surrender.

And he does. He sucks my cock like a pro.

The cold morning light filters through the small opening in the curtains on the windows of the main room. Dallas stands by a tiled kitchen counter, his hands deftly working through the meager offerings from the pantry—a can of beans and a can of ground beef. He moves with a quiet efficiency that somewhat contradicts the tension simmering all around us.

I'm sitting on the edge of the worn-out couch, rifling through my getaway gym bag I stashed in the basement along with the guns. My fingers find the familiar texture of clothes folded with haste, the crispness of a fake passport, and the cool plastic of burner phones. There are stacks of bills too. My emergency money no one knows about. Emergency money that's not meant to cover debts. It is meant to help me disappear.

Extracting one of the burners, I snap in a brand-new SIM card. I'm readying myself to dial Jeremy, but there's hesitation. Something's gnawing at the fringe of my mind.

What if Vlad lied?

What if they are all dead?

What if I'm walking right into a trap?

Fear is a living thing here, in this place. It breathes in the corners and whispers through the cracks in the floorboards. But Dallas's presence is a strange comfort amidst the chaos. I don't trust this feeling yet, this sense of completeness he brings. It's a foreign landscape within me, but I traverse it willingly, surrendering to the current carrying us both. I'm tired of not feeling at all.

"Remember that shithole airstrip where we nabbed Tucci?" My voice breaks the stillness of the room. Dallas pauses, a frown creasing his forehead as he turns toward me.

"Yeah, what about it?" His tone is guarded, a flicker of something dark passing over his features.

It haunts me. Letting him pull the trigger... Killing another human being, even a shit one, changes something inside you. Makes you dangerous. "I'm sorry," I say.

Dallas sets down the can opener, his blue eyes reflecting an unspoken understanding. "It was a necessary evil, Isaac."

"Maybe." There's a pause, heavy and thick. "I know a place like that up north. If we can snag a plane and a pilot, we could be ghosts, vanish in any direction."

Interest sparks in his gaze, mixing with the excitement of a plan forming. "I don't know anyone who could fly us out or give us a plane."

My thumb hovers over the call button. "I might."