22. Isaac

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.

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 while now 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 where I 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.

"Didn’t anyone tell you playing with guns is dangerous," he moans, and there's resignation in that sound—the kind that could make me forget why I ever needed a weapon to begin with. But forgetting is a luxury meant for those unscarred by the past.

"Quiet," I command, my words less an order and more a spell woven into the humid air between us.

Our mouths collide again, a savage blend of lips and teeth that speaks of hunger rather than affection. It's raw, this connection, sparking against the dampness of our skin.

Although, he’s got a few pounds of muscle on me and perhaps half an inch in height, Hawk yields beneath the onslaught. The gun in my hand is power, a reminder that I’m not a helpless boy cowering in the dark anymore. I keep the weapon close, letting its presence fortify the walls around my fractured soul.

I am the puppet master now, pulling on threads of sudden desire as I press closer, my body a shield and a statement all at once.

Hawk’s breath fans against my cheek, hot and erratic, as I continue to study his body, tracing my hand and the muzzle of the gun over his firm chest and his ridged abdomen.

Something inside me uncoils—an entity waking from a long slumber. Curiosity licks at my insides, flickering like a candle in the void.

I need both hands to do this.

The gun clatters onto the counter, the sound of finality that shoots through my bones. I wince at the thought of letting it go, abandoning my lone guardian. But something tells me Hawk’s not going to take advantage of me. I’m not sure why I trust the man I hardly know but my gut says he’s one of the good ones.

Internally, a monotonous laugh echoes at that naive sentiment. Because, in our line of work, there’s nothing good left. Only psychos.

"I shouldn’t be doing this," he whispers as I drag my mouth over his chin, memorizing the sharp curve of his jaw dusted with light not-even-day-old stubble. "With an employer."

"Didn’t you get the memo?" I murmur, letting my teeth graze his earlobe and tug lightly on his earrings. "We don’t follow rules here." I pull back slightly to meet his fever-bright gaze. His face is flushed and fucking stunning. "We make our own."

He chuckles through the heat of the moment, the sound more like a drunken slur.

I slip my hands down his body, one last sweep over his stomach before my fingers deftly work his belt free. I still remember how it’s done, all these years later, but I’m no longer the victim. I’m the one in charge.

The leather slips through the loops, a soft fizz in the silence of the bathroom. The buckle clatters against the marble when his pants drop, fabric whispering down lean muscular thighs.

The tiny space between us is thick with breaths held and released in uneven rhythms. The counter behind Hawk is a cold contrast to the heat that radiates from our bodies pressed together.

My fingertips graze the hem of his boxers, then I dive lower. He sucks in a lungful of air through clenched teeth when I find him hard and pulsing. I cup him through the fabric, feel his cock and play with his balls.

"Fuck..." Hawk gasps, and it's a sound torn from the depths, raw and unrestrained. He tosses his head back, eyes shut, hair mussed from all the earlier making out we did. Every line of him is somehow perfect. And I don’t know why I’ve never noticed it before.

There’s complete surrender written in the arch of his spine, the baring of his throat. So vulnerable. You could end him right here and now while he’s this exposed with his pants hanging down his thighs and his hands propped against the counter.

But that’s not what I want to do. I want to explore him instead. Explore his body. Wring sounds out of him until I find the one that I enjoy the most.

"You like that, don’t you?" I rasp out, my throat closing up for some reason. "Me, touching your cock?"

"Jesus... fuck..." His response is another broken moan, which only spurs me on. "You have to ask?"

I lean forward and press my mouth to his skin, my lips follow the slope of his collarbone while my hand continues its exploration south, delving beneath the boxers and gripping him firmly in my fist. Hawk’s cock fills my palm, big, hot, and aching.

"Fuck," he curses again, his hips jerking into my grip as I give him a light stroke.

My other hand grips his hip.

I glance up and drink in his expression—the hazy lust in his half-closed eyes and the flush staining those proud cheekbones. It’s... intoxicating. And empowering.

Here with him, I am more than the sum of my wounds. I wield power with every twist of my palm as I begin to stroke him for real now.

The tension between us ratchets up, electric and fleeting, as Hawk's thighs quake beneath my touch.

I haven’t yearned for another's body—or for physical intimacy—since before that very first time Jacob walked into my room when I was thirteen and told me to suck his dick.

But with Hawk, I can taste the control as I jerk him with purpose.

There's an edge to it, to this act, that makes me feel alive in a way I haven't been for years. Something at the base of my spin stirs, then spreads through my insides, hot and urgent.

I’m turned on, I realize. My own cock is hard in my pants. A fucking anomaly.

"I’m gonna come if you keep going…" Hawk chokes out.

"That’s the idea," I whisper back wickedly.

With both hands still gripping the counter for support, Hawk angles his hips toward me, offering himself up.

Firmly, I squeeze his balls, holding him off the edge, commanding, "Say my name."

"Isaac," he grunts out.

I tighten my grip—squeezing the base while I simultaneously twist the tip.

"Fuck..." Hawk pants, his eyes fly open. He stares at me, his chest rising and falling rapidly as he tries to regain control of himself. "That’s—"

I don’t give him that chance. "My name," I hiss in his ear.

A harsh exhale leaves his lips... "Christ, Blade..."

That’s better. "Good." I offer up a quick word of praise and adjust my grip on his cock again, squeezing just a little bit harder.

"Oh, fuck yes..." Hawk’s eyes roll back in his head, and I know he’s close. I can feel it.

"Look at me," I mutter. "I want to see you when you come."

As if my words hold power over him, his lids snap up again and I’m met with a haze of desire and ocean blue. His lashes flatter while my palm wrapped around his length continues to slide up and down the thick shaft.

"Fucking look at me," I order, all raspy from the heavy breathing. "And don’t you dare to close your eyes. You get it?" My hand moves faster and faster over his cock, determined to jack him off until he’s milked completely dry.

He nods in response, biting into his lower lip.

"That’s it," I coax. "Come for me."

The head of his cock is leaking pre-cum, and I gladly collect it with my thumb, then use it to tease the sensitive area underneath. Hawk’s back arches even more, the tendons in his neck standing out in relief.

"Fuck... Blade!" Hawk screams my goddamn street name as his body jerks and he spills—hot and sticky—over my palm and my clothes and the bathroom floor and I revel in that slickness between my fingers as if I’m marked by him, as if I’m his now and he is mine.

I watch him with morbid fascination as he trembles beneath my touch, as he comes apart before me—muscles tensing then relaxing—and there’s something about this that feels... right.

There’s silence in the bathroom, taut and heated and filled with electricity and the musky smell of cum.

"Fuck... Isaac," Hawk gasps several heartbeats later, his head lolling onto my shoulder, his frame a trembling echo of spent energy.

"Looks like you needed it," I say teasingly with a ghost of a smirk, even though he can’t see it. I’m feeling a rare flicker of something akin to warmth at his vulnerability.

His chuckle is low and broken. "Yeah, more than you know."

Oh, I know it. I haven’t been turned on since I laid Jacob to fucking rest.