28. Hawk

CHAPTER 28

HAWK

The cold steel of the gun pressed into my palm burns my skin where the two come into contact as I stare down at Tucci.

The Hellhounds linger in the shadows, their eyes fixated on me, waiting for my next move, and I can feel those gazes on my back. Isaac's request echoes in my mind, urging me to pull the trigger feels like a betrayal. The worst kind.

I thought I’d go through this without this type of initiation but apparently, I’m no exception.

That makes me laugh internally—the absurdity of it all, the absurdity of my own expectations.

Looks who’s talking, traitor.

It was you who went out on a limb and risked an agent's life to get information and place it neatly on Isaac's desk because you didn’t know how else to tell him without blowing your cover.

You made your bed.

I swallow hard, the weight of this decision crushing me. I'm an FBI agent. I can't just kill someone in cold blood. But if I don't do it, I’ll be the one losing my life. And everything I've worked for will be for nothing.

"Buying and selling kids, pendejo ," Hector’s disgusted whisper comes from somewhere behind me. "If you don’t have the stomach, Hawk, I’ll do it," he eggs me on. "And I’ll have my fun with him too." A dark chuckle.

"Hawk’s got it," Isaac’s cold reassuring voice says. It’s full of menacing promise. "He knows it’s the best we can do, considering what we saw today."

Isaac is not wrong.

And although a part of me still fights this, all it takes for the scale to tip is the thought of the horrors Tucci put Jessica through or the flashbacks of the drive-by in the parking lot, or several dozen teens that came out of the cargo plane less than an hour ago, scared to death and unaware of what their future would be like.

Men like Tucci always get away. I know it. I’ve seen it with my own eyes, witnessed tons of trials where the victim received no real justice and the offender got nothing more than a slap on the wrist.

This—right here and now—is the best justice we can give to all those wronged by the slippery motherfucker tied to a chair.

Rage simmers within me as time stretches on endlessly while I stand there, gun aimed at Tucci's head, heart pounding in my chest, finger firmly on the trigger.

Somewhere deep down I’m still torn between the pledge I took to protect the ones who can’t defend themselves and the need to retain my cover as Cody Smith. I’m still doubting I can take a life. But I’ve taken lives before. Back in Afghanistan.

Why would it be any different now?

The reality is that I already know where I stand. Known for a while. And no, I’d like to tell myself having access to Isaac’s cock has nothing to do with it. But doesn’t it?

Ah, fuck it.

If Isaac can protect people without a badge, I don’t need a badge every time I serve justice.

This is a righteous kill , I tell myself internally.

My finger tightens on the trigger, and the gunshot echoes through the warehouse, shattering the silence. Tucci's head jerks back, brains and blood spraying out behind him. He slumps in the chair, lifeless. Only it's all a haze to me. I don’t quite register the masterpiece of my own making.

"Good job, Hawk," Isaac says coldly. I barely hear his words, my hand trembling as I lower the weapon. And I’m scared someone will notice and realize who I am.

"Handle the gun and the body," Isaac orders Jeremy, who nods and steps forward to relieve me of the Glock.

Isaac claps my back and heads outside without another word.

"Need a smoke," I mutter at no one in particular, my voice sounding foreign to my own ears.

Ricky tips his chin in understanding.

"You’re a Hellhound through and through now." Hector grins at me as I pass by.

I walk by each man numbly, feeling disconnected from reality, seeing everything as if through some sort of clouded glasses that blurs it all, leach the world around me of colors. I’m drowning in the various shades of gray all of a sudden, shades I didn’t know existed before I pulled that trigger.

I've crossed a line tonight, fully shedding my identity as Agent Dallas Bradley and embracing my role as Hawk, a trusted member of the Hellhounds.

My heart races with fear and guilt, but there's no going back. There's only moving forward.

Outside, Isaac’s silhouette progresses further away from the entrance and out of a direct line of light coming from above.

When he retreats far enough into the shadows where he cannot be immediately spotted, he comes to a halt and pulls out his cigs.

I follow him quietly and position myself by his side.

As I stand there, still reeling from what I just did, the dry desert air bites into my skin, but it does nothing to soothe the storm of emotions raging inside me.

Isaac's presence beside me is both comforting and unsettling.

"Got a smoke?" I ask, my voice a tight whisper.

"Sure," he replies, handing me a cigarette. He lights it for me, and I take a deep drag, letting the nicotine calm my frayed nerves.

"Tell me we did the right thing," I say, exhaling smoke into the darkness.

Isaac turns to face me and looks at me with those smoldering brown eyes, full of understanding and something else I can't quite place. "Tucci was scum, you know that. If we hadn't taken him out, he'd just keep ruining more lives." His words reassure me, but they don't entirely chase away the guilt gnawing at my conscience.

I simply nod and take another long drag.

"Children should remain children for as long as they can," Isaac murmurs. There's something in his tone, a kind of dark resolve I don’t quite understand. There are a lot of things I actually don’t understand about Isaac Thoreau. I’d like to. I’m wondering if he’ll let me.

We stand there in silence for a moment, our breaths mingling in the hot air as we share this twisted unspoken bond. I want to hate him for what he made me do, but I simply can’t because it was the right call.

It's strange how a single violent act has brought us closer together in our shared culpability.

"It’s what we do," Isaac supplies. "The dirty work no one else dares." He sticks his cigarette into the corner of his lips and reaches into the space between us, his hand finding mine. It’s an offer of comfort, but he's hesitant, unsure. Perhaps he realizes that there are fractions of me that do hate him for putting me through the wringer.

But parts of me that crave his conform are greater. I tip my chin slightly, giving him permission, and he gently takes hold of my hand, his grip surprisingly warm and steady and familiar.

"I am sorry," he whispers.

"Nothing to forgive," I reply, not fully comprehending why he feels the need to apologize. But I can see it in his eyes–the burden of the choices he has to make for everyone’s sake. All these things have led him here, to this very second, and maybe, just maybe, we're both seeking absolution.

"Boss!" Jeremy shouts, suddenly emerging conspicuously from the warehouse's gaping mouth. "Boys wanna know where you want the body dumped?" His heavy footfalls approach us quickly, boots scraping on gravel, eyes flickering between Isaac and me as if he's walked in on something he wasn't supposed to see. His scar pulls at the edges as he continues to scrutinize us.

We're standing too close, so near that I can almost feel Isaac’s pulse against my skin. We clumsily disentangle ourselves but not before Jeremy clocks our intimacy. There's obvious suspicion in his tone as he queries again, "Boss?"

I try to shake off the intensity of our shared moment but I’m certain Jeremy’s seen it.

The air changes, suddenly heavy with the scent of blood and gunpowder, a grim reminder of the life that has been snuffed out.

Isaac locks eyes with me for one heartbeat longer than he needs to before turning his attention to his henchman. "Take it to the spot by the river," he commands thinly veiling the tension in his voice. "Make sure it's weighed down and hidden well. No loose ends."

"Got it," Jeremy growls, his dark eyes still flicking between the two of us.

"Ask Flynn to drive me back to the club," Isaac orders and starts walking toward the SUV parked nearby.

As I watch him climb in, I find myself alone under Nevada's sprawling star-infused canvas, my gloomy thoughts in sync with my sick stomach. I swallow hard against acid-flavored bile rising in my throat, pushing it down.

Not the time to fall apart, Hawk.

As soon as Flynn gets behind the wheel of an SUV and drives off with Isaac in the passenger seat, Jeremy shows up from the warehouse again, grabs the worn cotton neckline of my tee—stinking of sweat and adrenaline—and yanks me around the corner shielded from everyone's view.

I don't resist him. I see little point in it.

Jeremy's gonna think what he wants.

"Listen here, Hawk," he growls, his face inches from mine, anger burning in his flint-hard gaze. "I don't know what your game is, but I've got my eye on you. You may have Isaac fooled, but not me."

My back is flat against the cool metal wall. I'm sandwiched between steel and raw aggression. With a simple pivot on my heel I could knock him off-kilter if I wanted to—but if this man is still doubting my loyalty after witnessing me bloody my hands for Isaac...reasoning seems futile.

"Okay," I say curtly, not allowing his stream of doubt to unsettle me further.

"Isaac is my family," Jeremy continues, his voice low and dangerous. "If anything happens to him because of you, I'll kill you with my bare hands. Don't think I won't."

"Is that a promise?" I taunt him, even though my heart is pounding in my chest. "Because I'll be honest, Jeremy, I don't give a damn about your threats."

"Watch your mouth, newbie," Jeremy hisses, releasing me with a shove. "You won't always have Isaac around to protect you." He takes a half step back, creating a pocket of distance between us.

A chuckle leaves my lips.

"What’s so fucking funny?" he asks.

"Just wondering how someone as sweet as Jessica ended up with such a dumbass for a brother."

Even in the dark, I can see Jeremy's face redden with fury, veins bulging in his neck as he clenches his fists. I think he might charge at me, but then he shakes his head and growls out, "Keep talking, asshole." He spits into the dirt at my feet.

"Thanks for the advice," I reply sarcastically, watching him storm off into the night. He’s got a body to handle.

Once he's gone, I let out a shaky breath, turn around to face the wall and press my forehead against the metal, trying to push away the chaos in my mind.

You’ll get through this, Hawk.

No. Wait. You’ll get through this Dalla—

I slip through the door of my hotel room, the taste of violence still bitter on my tongue. The vague sight of Tucci’s brain matter splattered across the cement floor haunts me, even in the silence of this suit Isaac Thoreau has chosen for me.

I'm Hawk now.

Dallas Bradley is a whisper lost to the wind, a ghost with a badge buried six feet under my skin. And tonight, Hawk's hands are stained with blood and the phantom weight of the gun that ended Tucci lingers while my fingers fumble with the hem of my shirt and then a button and zipper of my jeans. Fabric slips off me with a hiss, a quiet shedding of the day's armor, revealing ink and scars beneath I catch in the mirror above the minibar.

It glints in the dim light from a single lamp I turned on when I stumbled in, its contents meticulously stocked—a silent witness to my unraveling. My hand wraps around a bottle, no glass, no ceremony. The sting of alcohol down my throat doesn't wipe the slate clean, but it blurs the edges, makes the reflection in the mirror tolerable. It's whiskey or regret that should be filling my chest.

After I’ve had enough sips to dull the aching sensation, I stagger into the shower.

The water pelts my skin, scalding, steam rising around me. Each droplet demands penance, a cleansing I can't truly claim.

Not anymore.

I scrub my flesh raw, but it's not dirt I'm trying to erase—it's memories, images of life draining from a man's eyes by my own volition. I'm caught between two hells—the one I came from and the one I’ve just been accepted to.

I stand there until the torrent beneath my skin begins to numb. I step out, a towel catching on my hips, clinging to the last shred of something that feels like decency.

There's a knock, a prelude to another kind of storm. I can feel it. No one else but Isaac would be at that door at the most inappropriate hour and right now is as dead as it can get during the night.

I already know what he'll bring with him—temptation, danger, an allure that's both weapon and wound. And it’ll hurt like a motherfucker after he’s gone. It always does after he’d grab me somewhere in the dark corner of Purgatory and capture my mouth with his. And then he’d disappear into the thin air as if he was never there, as if the taste of his kiss on my lips is simply a figment of my sick imagination.

But I can’t seem to stay away.

I open the door and just like I thought Isaac’s standing there, both hands tucked into the pockets of his slacks. Top three buttons of his shirt undone. Different shirt. Not the one he wore earlier when he asked me to commit a murder.

"Can I come in?" he rasps out, his eyes communicating perhaps too much. Too many things.

"Sure," I reply, my own voice surprisingly steady despite the tremor in my gut.

He steps inside, closing the gap between us, molding himself to me. He gives me no warning.

He crushes his lips to mine. His tongue explores my mouth, staking his claim, while my hands roam over his body, seeking assurance that I'm not alone in this darkness.

In his kiss there's power, a call that goes beyond bodies, beyond the blood on our hands. This is the dance we've perfected—the push and pull of desire wrapped in the guise of control. Desperate, twisted want, the kind that blurs lines and breaks all the rules. Desperate, twisted want, to have one another.

No reasoning.

No explanation.

Isaac's fingers ghost over my towel and it drops to the floor, surrendering the last of my barriers, the last shred of protection from his curse.

He nudges me backward, a quiet command I accede to willingly.

I give in.

I like this little pretend game. Like letting him think he’s in charge here but I’ve known this for a while now—his control in the bedroom is just a wall he’d build around himself. A wall I will destroy one day to get a better look at what’s really behind it.

Isaac’s hands grip my hips and we're moving. A collision course set toward the bed.

"Is this your way of saying you want more than just a tame make-out session today?" My words hush against the shell of his ear. My fingertips are lost in a sea of dark tangles at the back of his head. His hair has grown some, I notice. Such an insignificant detail. Yet, everything about him, every little change in these past few months stands out.

I tease his neck next, soaking up the sounds he’s making. The thready moans that fill the room when I brush my tongue over the old scar across his throat.

"It’s my way of saying I want your cock," he replies, voice tight. A strangled, needy declaration from a man who’s struggling to keep up the illusion of being in the lead.

He’s hard and writhing against me and my own cock is good and ready, standing at attention.

I spin us, shifting the trajectory. There's a hunger in me that wants more than just the press of sheets against skin tonight. I have to forget what happened. What he made me do.

In a move that's part playful rebellion, part raw need, I pivot us, pushing him back until Isaac's body hits the cool glass of the floor-to-ceiling window. The entire city sprawls beneath us, unseeing and unaware, as my fingers trace their way to his slacks’ zipper, sliding them down in one fluid movement. My hand ventures further into his boxers, cupping his balls and his perfect rock-hard cock.

His head lolls back, colliding gently with the glass. He releases another moan, breathy and soft like a whisper on the wind. The kind of sound you’d never hear from Isaac Thoreau outside the bedroom. The kind of sound that will ruin his reputation.

I squeeze and twist him a little, wringing more noises from between his lips.

"Anyone ever told you how hot you sound?" I murmur against his skin while caressing the crook of his neck. My hand, still hidden in his boxers, strokes and teases his throbbing cock with a slow, deliberate rhythm.

He nudges me back and watches my face with those intense chocolate eyes while I continue to jerk him. The room pulses with the heat of our breaths.

"You’re the first one," he whispers, his chest heaving, his hair a mess and his face is all flushed.

I reach out to brush my thumb over his wet mouth.

He bats my wrist away only to lean in and claim my lips with his again and again until they are nearly bruised. Like an addict drawn to his favorite sin. It’s another one of his silent assertions that sears me down to my bones.

"Faster," he orders when we pull apart to get more air into our starving lungs.

I do as he says, increasing speed.

"Faster… Yeah… Right there… Fuck…"

His breath catches at the base of his throat, stuck before it shudders free. His body arches toward me, desperate for release. A garbled string of incoherent curses follow.

I’m so turned on, I can’t think straight anymore. I rub myself against his thigh while he fumbles clumsily with the buttons of his shirt. It’s messy. An absolute disaster.

His cock twitches in my palm, and I tighten my grip.

"You like that, huh?" I mutter, nibbling on his ear. "You like when I own your cock like this? Admit it."

His rebuttal drowns in the expanse between our bodies as he burrows his face into my neck, tracing moisture trails, and softly counters, "No one owns me, Hawk."

"I beg to differ." I squeeze him some more. He whimpers in response. "Stop trying to pretend you’re in control here." My hand slows down. The strokes are now measured, intended to keep him on the brink.

"Don’t you dare fucking stop," he manages to choke out between his gasps.

"Outside these walls, you can give the orders," I rasp, thumb swiping over the head of his erection. "But here... here you're mine to play with. Just admit it, Isaac."

"Play?" Isaac's laugh is half-moan, half-challenge.

"Damn right." My strokes become more insistent again, a silent language of lust between us. "I've let you be in charge because you're fucking irresistible. Because every time I try to get rid of you, you pull me back in deeper."

"Deeper..." The word spills from Isaac's lips, a hint of vulnerability beneath the steel. "Just don't forget who runs this city."

"Never." I feel the thrum of his pulse against my fingertips when I wrap my free hand around his throat. "But let’s make something clear… I don’t bottom, Isaac. And in this room, I’ll run you. If that’s why you keep seeking me out."

A heartbeat passes where we simply exist in the shared intensity of our gaze, two opposing forces vying for control. It's Isaac who ultimately capitulates, albeit grudgingly—an echo of surrender woven into his exhale that's lined with undertones of defiance.

"If we do this," he says quietly, "I need to know you’ll stop when I tell you to stop." There’s a hidden message in his request and I sense a lick of fear. I think I know where it’s coming from but I don’t want to spoil the moment. I don't want to ask him about his past.

"Yes," I simply promise. "We don’t push past each other’s boundaries." Neither of us crosses lines not meant to be crossed. I grant him his wish. All the while, my hand maintains an unhurried cadence on his cock, holding him at the precipice.

And I intend to make it good. Every stroke, every touch, is a vow of what's to come—a reminder that behind closed doors, we dance to a rhythm that's ours alone, as dangerous and potent as the secrets we keep.

Isaac's breath is a whisper-thin fracture in his composure. "I don't like to feel weak," he grinds out.

"See, that's where you're wrong," I murmur, my voice steady as the pulse that races beneath my skin. "I'm not looking to weaken you. I want to unravel you—layer by layer—until all that's left is sensation." My fingers pause, hovering over his flesh like an unspoken invitation. "I want you to feel real pleasure, Isaac... if you let me."

A silent moment stretches between us, taut as the expectation that crackles in the air. The cityscape below is a tapestry of darkness and light, oblivious to what's brewing within these walls.

Isaac gives a nearly imperceptible nod, and it's all the consent I need.

"Undress me," he orders, voice barely above a growl, but there's a tremble in his words. It's not a command. It's a plea wrapped in the trappings of authority.

His jacket falls away, followed by his shirt—a deliberate striptease that leaves him exposed, yet ablaze with power. A shudder courses through him as my palms trace the ridges and planes of his body, mapping every contour with a reverence reserved for holy things.

Fingers deft, I peel away his slacks, our roles shifting and tangling like shadows at dusk. Nakedness becomes him, and as I press him against the cool glass again, he finally surrenders his crown.

"Look at you," I breathe against his ear, voice rough with desire. "The man who fears nothing, now open and aching for touch."

"Fuck you," Isaac hisses, but it's with want, not anger. His reflection in the glass is a study of contrasts—the hardness in his eyes, the softness of his parted lips.

I spin him around, his chest to the window, his ass teasing my cock now. Fucking hell. This is harder than I thought—holding back.

"Let go," I coax, my mouth ghosting along the nape of his neck. "Let go, and I'll make it good."

He leans back into me with a sigh, his body finally learning how to trust—a fragile thing given not easily but wholly. In this tango of dominance and surrender, we find a tempo that is dark and relentless, a tempo that speaks of wanting and being wanted, of taking and being taken.

I reach around and grab his cock again, milking it while my own dick teases his crack.

"Fuck," he groans, a sound torn from deep within as I slowly guide us both toward an inescapable place, where pleasure and pain blur into something exquisite and terrifying.

His back is a canvas of ink and pale skin stretched taut over lean muscle. And a lion, detailed, almost alive is staring back at me from that canvas. I take a moment to drink it in. It's so fucking Isaac. As my free hand drifts lower, I can feel him shiver, a visceral reaction to words that are for him alone.

"Talk to me," he demands, his voice rough like gravel, an undercurrent of something darker threading through the command. A plea to distract.

"Every filthy thought I have begins and ends with you." My finger traces the divide of his ass cheeks, drawing a line of fire on his skin. "I picture you, spread out and begging, while the city watches, blind to your debauchery."

The tremor that runs through him betrays his need.

"More," he growls, unapologetic. And I comply.

"Imagine," I whisper, my finger slipping between his ass cheeks and teasing the tight ring of muscle, "my mouth there, worshiping you—tasting what's mine."

A groan escapes him. He's open to me in a way he's never been to anyone else, his barriers crumbling under the onslaught of sensation.

"Fuck," he chokes out. "Please," and it's all the permission I need.

Dropping to my knees, I trail kisses down his spine, stopping just above his ass, before gently parting his cheeks and teasing his hole with my tongue, then carefully delving into the heat of him, exploring the forbidden with an insatiable hunger.

"Fuck, Hawk..." His voice cracks, the sound of a man teetering on the edge of something monumental. In this moment, Isaac isn't the feared leader of the Hellhounds. He’s not even Thoreau. He's just flesh and desire, stripped bare and shivering under the ministrations of my mouth.

"Fuck," he pants a single word, clutching at the window for support as I continue to tease him. His breath fogs up the glass, blurring the cityscape beyond.

I push my tongue deeper into his body, my head bobbing as I go in and out, in and out, then pull out and lap at his hole, licking his quivering skin. My lips move in a devil’s prayer as I taste him more and more, each flick of my tongue a new stamp.

He shivers and shakes and continues to make sexy sounds while the city sprawls beneath us, oblivious to the act of possession taking place above its glittering lights.

"Has anyone ever done this to you?" I ask as I draw back a little to replace my tongue with my index finger.

He responds with another strangled groan.

I taunt his asshole some more, circling and probing until he is squirming in pleasure and frustration. Just as he begins to relax, I pull away, leaving him on the edge of ecstasy.

I rise from my knees, my palms are ghosting over his body.

The musky taste of Isaac still lingers on my tongue as I spin him around. Our gazes lock, twin storms raging in the quiet between us. His eyes are glassy as if he’s in some other parallel world.

"Bed," I command. The effects of alcohol are now in full swing and I’m losing myself to this madness when he complies. Isaac Thoreau does what I tell him to do. It’s a fair payback for what I did for him earlier.

We stumble across the room clumsily, kissing each other.

"I want you to fuck me, Hawk," Isaac says once we reach the edge of the bed.

The words are a match struck against the kindling of my resolve, and I'm overcome with want to brand him as mine in ways the world would never understand. In ways I didn’t think he’d ever allow me. But he’s allowing it now.

"You sure?" I ask.

He shakes his head. Once. "No. But I want it anyway," he confesses. "Want to feel your cock inside me."

Together, we tumble onto the bedcovers, naked and hard and desperate for release, as if our very survival depends on it.

I guide him as he lies back under the command of my palm on his chest. I press him into the mattress, feeling his heartbeat under my touch.

"I want to see your face when I fuck you." My tone leaves no room for argument. His dark eyes are locked on mine, pleading as, with reverent hands, I part his legs and position myself at his center. I tease him—his dick and his balls—with my hands first, then with the tip of my cock slicked with pre-cum.

His mouth slacks open. His breaths are fast and shallow and a little loud. He’s completely undone, every last piece of his armor shed.

I reach over to the bedside table and fish out the lube from the drawer and a pack of condoms. I didn't think I'd ever use them with him but it's never a bad thing to have handy. Quickly coating my fingers and my cock with lube, I press a digit to his entrance, gently pushing into the tight heat, but this time as deep as I can, as deep as his body allows it.

Isaac gasps, his cock twitching at the invasion. But he's not moving away. Instead, he thrusts his hips upward.

"You like that?" I ask, curling my finger and stretching him open, feeling a moment of satisfaction as he heaves and moans. "You like it all the way in, huh? I bet you’ll like it more when I drill you with my cock, baby."

"Oh fuck," he cries out, eyes rolling back.

I add a second digit, opening him wider while working his prostate.

He's pulling on the bedcovers. His body is shuddering under mine with every thrust of my fingers.

I move in sync with my other hand that's jerking off Isaac's cock.

"That's it," I whisper as I watch droplets of pre-cum leaking from his head. "That’s it, baby. You’re almost ready. Almost ready to take me. Just one more finger. One more finger to get you all good."

Slowly, I ease in the third digit, parting Isaac's tight ass even more. His body is a tense bowstring almost ready to snap under the force of this pleasure. His walls clench and unclench around me and he groans through his teeth and arches to adjust the angle.

He looks both pained and ecstatic as he accepts my intrusion and I fuck him slowly and carefully until he’s relaxed and prepared.

"You’re ready now," I murmur, withdrawing my fingers and rubbing my cock against his lubed-up entrance while giving him time to get used to the idea of letting me in.

There’s a moment when we both look at each other, eyes locked as if preparing for another invisible battle. Instead, we simply continue to stare, our breaths loud and heavy in the tiny pockets of air between our sweaty, wanting bodies.

He swallows.

"I've got you," I whisper, brushing my cock against him once more before grabbing a condom and quickly putting it on. And then I enter him. Slowly, carefully, until I'm fully seated within him. The heat of his body envelops me, and the connection is electric, a circuit completed, power surging through us both.

"Move," Isaac gasps grasping my shoulders, nails digging crescent moons into my skin. And I do, withdrawing only to press back in, setting a rhythm that's as ancient as time yet as new as the raw emotion etched on his face.

"You feel so fucking good." I punctuate each word with a thrust, seeking to reach places untouched by any before me.

"Fuck… love your cock," he moans, breathless, a total surrender that adds fuel to the fire burning within me.

"Say it again," I demand, my voice a blend of darkness and desire, driving into him with a possessiveness that borders on reverence. It's not just flesh I'm claiming but every scar, every secret he harbors—the very essence of Isaac 'Blade' Thoreau.

"I. Love. Your. Cock. Inside. Me," he chokes out with a tiny smirk, and the sound shatters the last of my restraint. I take him harder, deeper, our bodies a tangle of limbs and fervor, the slap of skin echoing off the walls of this room.

"Look at me," I command, and he does, those smoldering brown eyes holding mine with an intensity that could scorch the soul. There's no hiding here, not when I'm buried inside him, not when every stroke speaks of unadulterated truth.

"Good," I praise, my pace unrelenting. "Let go, baby. Just feel."

And he does. His body arches into mine and I’m the arrow aimed straight for the heart of him. We move together, locked in a dance where the steps are carved from the alcohol-induced buzz and the primal need that can’t be explained.

The city below fades into oblivion, and there's only us—two men entwined in a dark waltz, spinning faster and faster toward an end that promises nothing but the certainty of our mutual destruction. Yet, in this space, in this moment, nothing else matters—not the blood on my hands, nor the shadows in his past.

"Harder," Isaac urges, and I oblige, each thrust a testament to the hunger that eats at us. The hunger that needs to be sated.

The tension coils tighter, a serpent biding its time in the pit of my gut. Isaac's breath catches on the precipice of something immense, and I feel his body—this fortress of a man—quake beneath me.

"Fuck," he cries out, words fractured by pleasure. "Hawk..."

My thrusts are relentless, each one accompanied by a grunt or a groan from either of us.

"Fuck..." His voice is a ragged whisper, strained with the effort of holding back the inevitable. "I’m close."

"Let it fucking go…. Let it all go." The command leaves my mouth, and I can't tell if it’s for him or for me.

And then he breaks—the dam bursts, and emotion floods through him, through us both. His eyes, dark mirrors reflecting our shared damnation, lock onto mine as his back arches off the bed, every muscle straining toward some unreachable salvation.

His release comes as a shudder that ripples through to my core, cum splattering my chest and chin, marking me in the same way I’m marking him, a silent scream that echoes in the space between us. Isaac clings to me, nails branding me as his just as I brand him with my presence inside him.

"Fuck... Isaac..." I'm right there, teetering on the brink, feeling his body clench around me, pulling me deeper into the vortex.

My vision blurs, and for a heartbeat, there's nothing in the world but the sensation of him—hot, tight, overwhelming.

I come with a force that strips me of thought, of breath, of everything but the searing intensity of the moment. It's a cataclysm, a reckoning, the kind of climax that brands your soul with its ferocity. Our shouts mingle, two voices lost in the cacophony of a city that will never understand the chaos we've found in each other.

We collapse together, side by side, a mess of limbs and sweat-soaked sheets, our labored breathing the only sound in the aftermath of this storm. There's no comfort here, no gentle afterglow; just the bitter tang of reality as it waits for us, patient and cruel, beyond the walls of this room.

"Damn," Isaac rasps, staring up at the ceiling and trying to restore his breathing.

"Did you like it?" I ask, my gut tight. Somehow, it's important for me that he enjoyed this, enjoyed what we did.

He turns his head to me. "What do you think?"

"I think I’d fuck you again and again."

"I think I’d like for you to fuck me again and again," I reply with a tiny smile.

My dumb heart flutters.

God, I’m a goner. He’s going to ruin me even though I’m the one doing all the ruining.

The mission. The oath I’ve given…

For some reason, I can’t bring myself to care about any of it right now.

THE END OF BOOK ONE