Page 8

Isabel

The black SUV rolls to a stop outside Club Greed, and I have to remind myself to breathe. My heart is racing, a mix of adrenaline and anticipation flooding my system. Lincoln and I step out of the SUV, and he hands his keys to the valet. We’re on the guest list, courtesy of a tip from my contact at the police station, who knows Chloe Huxley—wife of the club’s elusive owner, Devereaux.

My pulse thrums with excitement and a trace of nerves. This place already looks wildly out of my comfort zone, but in the best possible way. The building itself is enormous—tall, dark windows that hide whatever decadent secrets lie inside. Music pulses through the walls, heavy bass notes spilling onto the street. Standing close to Lincoln, I catch a whiff of his cologne—something woodsy, masculine, and maddeningly appealing. The heat from his body radiates toward me, steady and reassuring.

He places a hand on the small of my back as we head for the entrance. Normally, I’d scoff at such a proprietary gesture, but tonight, it feels right. We’re supposed to look like a couple, anyway. And maybe, if I’m being honest with myself, I enjoy the protective weight of his palm there.

The bouncer, a giant man with arms thicker than my thighs, barely gives us a second glance once he confirms our names on the list. He unhooks the velvet rope and nods us forward. I can’t help but feel a tiny jolt of power as we stride in, skipping the waiting crowd. Even though I know this place is dangerous—Morris Rolfe might be lurking in its shadows—the thrill of the unknown sparks something inside me.

We step into a sprawling foyer lit by a massive chandelier. The overhead fixture is shaped like a twisted helix of metal and glass, dripping with crystals that refract light in wild patterns across the marble floor. A hostess in a black bustier and fishnet stockings flashes us a sensual smile, gesturing us through another set of doors. The moment those doors swing open, the music hits full force, a throbbing beat that vibrates in my bones.

I glance at Lincoln, and he nods curtly, urging me onward. I straighten my spine, push my shoulders back, and follow the hostess into what can only be described as a den of vice. The entire place is bathed in pulsing reds and violets, shadowed corners revealing glimpses of couples pressed intimately against walls or tangled on curved velvet couches. There’s a bar area front and center, a long stretch of mirrored glass that seems to glow from within. Several bartenders—decked out in tight black outfits—serve drinks while patrons either lounge or, in some cases, make out with blatant abandon.

To our left, a roped-off section features plush booths and tinted windows, hinting at private gatherings. Across from that, the centerpiece of the club: a wide, curved white marble staircase that winds up to a second level I can’t fully see from here. Whatever’s up there, it’s probably even more exclusive. My heart pounds—this is definitely not a place I’ve ever been, or even imagined going. Yet, a forbidden thrill surges through me.

Lincoln leans close to my ear, his voice rumbling. “You okay?”

I swallow, nodding, the bass thrumming in my chest. “Better than okay,” I say, and I’m surprised by how breathy I sound. “This place is… intense.”

He offers me a half-smile, that flicker of warmth in his dark eyes. It’s only a second or two before he returns to the stoic mask he usually wears, scanning the crowd for any signs of trouble. But for those few heartbeats, I catch a glimpse of the man behind the protective walls. Heat coils in my belly, remembering how close we got while shopping for these clothes, how he helped me zip my dress. The brush of his knuckles on my back, his eyes dark with longing even though he fought to stay composed.

Focus, Isabel, I chide myself. This is a mission.

The music shifts to a new track with heavier bass, making the floor vibrate under my heels. Lincoln’s hand remains at my lower back as we navigate through clusters of well-dressed couples. We reach the bar, finding two empty stools near one end. The bar itself is made of mirrored panels, each reflecting the throng of people in chaotic, kaleidoscopic angles. It’s almost dizzying.

I settle onto a stool, crossing my legs. The slit in my black dress falls open just enough to hint at my thigh, and I notice Lincoln’s gaze flick there for the briefest moment before he tears his eyes away. A tiny surge of satisfaction warms me. He might be ex- military, controlled and disciplined, but he’s not immune to me. Not entirely.

A bartender with platinum-blonde hair and a sleek black outfit approaches, leaning forward with a sultry grin. “What’ll it be?”

I exchange a glance with Lincoln. We want to appear like we belong, so we don’t want to order anything too plain. At the same time, I don’t want to overthink it. “Something sweet and strong,” I say with a playful arch of my brow.

Lincoln orders a whiskey neat. It’s fitting—he’s the stoic, no-frills type, and even here in this wild environment, it suits him perfectly. The bartender nods and sets to work, pulling bottles from behind the bar.

I take the chance to observe the clientele. A couple next to us is deep in conversation—scratch that, the woman is basically perched on the man’s lap, running her fingers through his hair while he murmurs something in her ear. Across the bar, two women sway on their stools, giggling as they share a neon-colored cocktail. The air is thick with desire. Everyone here seems to be chasing some form of decadent thrill, whether it’s physical, emotional, or maybe something more sinister.

Lincoln shifts closer, brushing his leg against mine in the limited space. “See anything interesting?” he asks, voice pitched low for my ears only.

I bite my lip, scanning the room. “Plenty. Although, I’m not sure we’re going to find Rolfe just by looking. He probably has his own suite or something.”

“Agreed,” Lincoln says, giving the crowd another sweeping glance. “But let’s see what we can learn from the staff before we go exploring.”

Just then, the bartender returns, placing a martini-style glass in front of me. It fizzes softly, pink foam at the top, and smells like strawberries and a hint of champagne. Lincoln’s whiskey gleams amber in a lowball glass. I thank the bartender with a smile, then take a sip. Sweetness explodes on my tongue, followed by a gentle burn of alcohol. It’s surprisingly good.

Lincoln picks up his whiskey. “We’re looking for someone,” he says calmly, swirling the liquor in his glass. “Heard he might be around tonight.”

The bartender narrows her eyes slightly. “Oh? Lots of someones come here. I’ll need a name.”

He leans closer, and I notice the way the overhead lights cast shadows on his sharp jawline. “Morris Rolfe.”

A spark of recognition flashes in her gaze, gone almost as quickly as it appears. She wipes down the counter with a rag, then leans in, lowering her voice. “Rolfe, huh? I’ve heard the name. He hosts private parties here sometimes. Invite-only.”

I exchange a look with Lincoln. So it’s true—Rolfe is indeed connected to this place.

I clear my throat. “We’d love to… attend one of those parties,” I say, allowing a hint of flirtation into my tone. “We came all this way, might as well make it worthwhile.”

The bartender smirks. “Parties like that aren’t for everyone,” she purrs, flicking her gaze between the two of us. “You need someone to vouch for you. Devereaux has his rules, and he doesn’t bend them easily—same goes for Rolfe.”

“Any chance you could point us in the right direction?” Lincoln asks, cool and polite.

She shrugs, wiping a champagne spill on the mirrored bar. “Not unless you’ve got an in with Rolfe. Otherwise, you’ll just have to hope he notices you.” She turns away to fill another patron’s order, effectively dismissing us.

I sip my drink again, the tangy sweetness calming my nerves even as my pulse refuses to settle. “So he does host parties here,” I say softly to Lincoln.

He nods, his gaze flicking over the crowd. “We’ll need an invite to get anywhere near him. And from the sound of it, that’s no small feat.”

I swirl my drink, watching the pink foam dissolve into the liquid. “We need another approach. Maybe we can find someone who’s on the list for his next party, and… make friends?”

Lincoln glances sideways at me, the corner of his mouth lifting just a fraction. “That’s a start. But we should be careful. If he’s here, or if his people are here, we don’t want to tip them off that we’re after him.”

My heart pounds faster, the thrill of the chase sending electricity along my skin. I lean closer, lowering my voice to match the pulsing beat around us. “So how do we do that without being obvious?”

His hand slides onto my thigh beneath the bar, a feathery brush that sends a shockwave of warmth through my body. “We look like we’re here for… other reasons,” he says, his eyes glittering with silent promise. “We blend in.”

The air thickens between us, my breath catching. This is exactly why we came here under the guise of a couple, but the act feels dangerously real. My skin prickles where his fingers rest, and a flood of need courses through me. For a moment, I forget to respond, too caught up in the sensation of his touch.

Around us, the club’s energy intensifies. A pair of dancers in the center of the floor move sinuously to the music, their bodies pressed together in a way that leaves little to the imagination. A moan floats from a corner booth, where silhouettes merge in the flickering strobe lights. My cheeks warm—this place is definitely bolder than anywhere I’ve been. Yet, I feel a rush of curiosity, a sensual awareness that maybe I’m not as opposed to this atmosphere as I thought I’d be.

Lincoln’s hand shifts slightly, rubbing a slow circle against my thigh through the thin fabric of my dress. My breath stutters, and I catch his gaze. There’s something primal there, something that says he’s not unaffected by our charade either.

I steel myself, pushing away the urge to get lost in the moment. “We… we can ask around,” I suggest in a whisper. “See if anybody’s heard about his next party.”

He nods, clearing his throat as he removes his hand—almost reluctantly. The loss of contact is oddly disappointing. I take a bigger gulp of my drink to distract myself from the lingering spark on my skin.

We leave the bar area and wander deeper into the club, weaving through clusters of people. It’s a kaleidoscope of sights: a woman in a crimson latex dress laughing in a man’s ear; a tall, regal woman with silver hair perched on a chaise, watching a couple dance provocatively on a platform. Every so often, Lincoln murmurs a question—something casual about the nightlife here, or if they’ve heard about special events. We get a few shrugs, a few cryptic comments, but no clear lead.

“Why don’t we check the roped-off area?” I say, gesturing with my chin. “Might be more VIP types who actually know Rolfe.”

Lincoln’s eyes track the roped barrier. Two security guards stand at attention there, scanning the crowd for wristbands or some other sign of permission. People slip past them occasionally, disappearing into the curtained alcoves, or further down to the rooms at the end. I can’t help but wonder what goes on in those private booths and rooms—probably deals, rendezvous, and maybe far more.

“We’ll need a reason to get in,” Lincoln says.

I toss my hair, trying to exude confidence. “We can make one. Just follow my lead.”

Without waiting for him to respond, I hook my arm through his and guide him toward the barrier. One of the guards, a blonde woman with a stud in her eyebrow, arches a brow as we approach. She doesn’t move, though, which I take as a sign to speak.

“Hi,” I say, summoning a flirty smile. “We’d love a booth—somewhere more private.”

Her gaze sweeps over me, then Lincoln, measuring us up. “Membership or wristband?”

I feign ignorance. “We weren’t given a wristband at the door. Is there a cover we can pay instead?” I slide a glance at Lincoln, who calmly opens his wallet, producing a few crisp bills. He’s quick on the uptake, thank God.

The guard looks uninterested. “We don’t do covers here. You need an invitation to enter this section. No exceptions.”

My stomach clenches, but I let out a soft laugh. “Ah, well… guess we’ll just have to make do with the main floor, then.” I cast my best disappointed look, which seems to soften the guard’s expression only a hair.

Lincoln offers a polite nod, tucking the bills away. “Thanks anyway.”

We head back into the throng, neither of us speaking for a moment. My pulse is still hammering from that brush-off. Clearly, this place has strict rules about who goes where.

Before I can voice my frustration, my phone buzzes inside my clutch. I glance at the screen. It’s a short message from my contact at the police station:

“Chloe says Devereaux said Rolfe might be hosting a private event in the next few days. If you can find him, mention Angelus if you need a password.”

Angelus. That must be some kind of code word for Rolfe’s parties. I show the text to Lincoln, who reads it with a spark of interest in his eyes.

“Looks like we have a shot,” he says under his breath. “Now we just need to find someone who can actually grant us an invite.”

“Or Rolfe himself,” I add, scanning the room. I have no idea what he looks like, but I’m sure he’ll be hard to ignore. He might be hidden away upstairs or in the roped-off VIP area.

Lincoln’s hand finds my waist, guiding me toward a quieter corner near the edge of the dance floor. “We should be careful,” he says softly. “If we go around dropping that word to random people, we might draw the wrong kind of attention.”

I nod, leaning against the cool metal railing that separates the dance floor from the lounge area. “So how do we do this?”

He thinks for a moment, gaze drifting over the crowd. “We watch. Wait for someone who looks like they’re in charge, or at least connected. Then we make our move—subtly.”

“Stealth mission,” I tease. “Just like your old days in the military.”

He smirks, but there’s a seriousness in his eyes. “Exactly.”

The music shifts yet again, this time to a darker, more seductive beat. Couples gravitate to the dance floor, bodies moving in an almost hypnotic rhythm. I feel an inexplicable urge to join them—even though we’re on a mission, the atmosphere is drawing me in. The pulsing lights, the heat of so many bodies, the thrill of being here with Lincoln at my side. The tension between us is a living, breathing thing, and I can’t ignore it any longer.

I press a hand to his chest. “Dance with me,” I say, my voice barely audible over the music.

He hesitates, scanning the room as if double-checking for threats. But then his gaze settles on me, and I see the flicker of desire there. Without a word, he nods. I take his hand, pulling him onto the dance floor.

The bass reverberates through my whole body, and I let the beat guide me, swaying my hips in time. Lincoln places his hands on my waist, at first stiffly, as if unsure how to navigate this. But after a moment, he relaxes, matching my movements.

I tilt my head back, letting the music flow through me, and catch his eye. The flashes of red and violet light paint shadows across his face, highlighting the sharp planes of his cheeks, the tension in his jaw. He looks impossibly handsome in that tailored suit, and each time his hands tighten on my hips, a pulse of want radiates through me.

He leans in, his breath warm against my ear. “You’re enjoying this,” he murmurs, not quite a question.

I laugh softly, gliding my hands up his arms. “Maybe more than I should.”

A low growl escapes his throat, so quiet I almost miss it. “Focus, remember?”

“I am focusing,” I whisper back, arching my body closer to his. Our torsos brush, and the friction sends a jolt of pleasure through me. “On blending in.”

He exhales sharply, sliding a hand around my lower back to pull me flush against him. The beat of the music merges with the pounding of my heart. I run my fingers up the back of his neck, feeling the short hairs there as he dips his head. We’re dangerously close, our breath mingling, lips just a whisper apart.

For a moment, everything around us disappears—the club, the lights, the mission. It’s just Lincoln and me, swaying to the relentless bass, trying not to cross a line we can’t uncross. The tension is nearly suffocating, and I’m not entirely sure if I want to keep dancing or drag him into a shadowy corner and do something I’d regret in the morning.

Then I feel a hand tap my shoulder, and I blink, tearing my gaze from Lincoln’s. A tall man in a sleek charcoal suit stands nearby, a coy smile on his face. “Pardon the interruption,” he says, “but my boss would like to have a word with you two.”

Lincoln straightens, pulling me slightly behind him. “Your boss?”

The man nods politely. “Devereaux Huxley. He’s upstairs.” He gestures to the marble staircase in the center of the club, which is roped off at the base. “He noticed you asking questions about Morris Rolfe.”

My stomach flips. So we’ve been watched this entire time. I slip my hand into Lincoln’s, grounding myself. “When does he want to see us?” I ask, trying to sound calm and unruffled.

The stranger steps back, indicating the staircase. “Right now, if you please.”

Lincoln and I exchange a look. This could be exactly what we need—or a trap. He squeezes my hand reassuringly, and I nod, following the man off the dance floor. My thoughts swirl: If Devereaux wants to see us, that means we’re getting closer to Rolfe… but at what cost?

We weave through the crowd, past the bar area, until we reach the white marble steps. Up close, they’re even more impressive, the polished surface reflecting the club’s swirling lights. Two more guards step aside to let us pass, and we ascend toward an ornate landing.

Each footstep sends a thrill of anticipation through me. My lips still tingle from how close Lincoln and I were on the dance floor. I can’t focus on that now, though—this is the real deal. Devereaux is the owner, the man rumored to have shady connections, the man who was once suspected of being a serial killer, and he apparently knows about our interest in Rolfe.

Reaching the top, we find ourselves in a lavish corridor lined with plush carpeting and framed artwork that looks suspiciously like it belongs in a museum. The man in the charcoal suit leads us to a set of double doors, knocks once, then opens them. Inside is a private office, decked out in even more luxurious fashion than the main club below. Velvet sofas, low tables, an expensive chandelier shaped like swirling vines of glass.

A figure stands by the window, back turned, one hand resting on the windowpane that looks more ornamental than functional. He’s tall, wearing a crisp black suit. As we enter, he turns, a slow smile curving across his lips. His eyes move from Lincoln to me, and I feel pinned in place by the sheer weight of his attention.

“Welcome,” he says, voice a warm baritone that somehow conveys a subtle warning. “I’m Devereaux.”

Lincoln inclines his head. “I’m Lincoln Zane, and this is Isabel. We appreciate the invitation.”

Devereaux’s gaze lingers on me for a moment. “I couldn’t help but notice you two downstairs, asking about someone… special.”

“Morris Rolfe,” I say, stepping forward. My voice comes out more confident than I feel. “We heard he hosts parties here.”

Devereaux chuckles. “Indeed he does. And you want to attend, I assume?”

A spike of hope mingles with anxiety. “Yes,” Lincoln answers for us both. “We were told it’s invite-only.”

Devereaux nods, strolling to one of the velvet sofas and sitting gracefully. He gestures for us to join him. “I like to keep certain gatherings… exclusive. Rolfe is a valuable member. He has his own circle of friends and acquaintances.” Then Devereaux stares at me, almost like he’s studying me. “You look very familiar. What’s your last name?”

I blink, wondering if I should let him know I’m Dean’s sister. I know Dean knows him. It would be so simple to tell him of our connection and secure an invite instantly. However, I don’t want to clue Dean in on what we’re doing here.

He wouldn’t understand. At all. Overprotective brother vibe and all that.

I quickly shift, looking him directly in the eyes. “Zane.”

We move to the sofa across from him, my thigh brushing Lincoln’s as we settle. I notice the tension in Lincoln’s shoulders, the way he’s prepared to move at any second if things turn south.

“So,” Devereaux says, “I asked you up here because I take this club’s privacy seriously. A while back we had a rough time at people getting in and murdering my staff. I have many walks of life that are members here, and when a new couple comes in asking a lot of questions it makes me curious. I see my wife vouched for you. How do you know her?”

I swallow. Hard. “Through a friend of a friend. I don’t personally know your wife, but am good friends with somebody on the force.”

Devereaux smiles, but it never reaches his eyes. “Ah, I see. You both seem like a nice couple, but I’m not sure if Morris Rolfe’s parties are your type of pleasure.”

Lincoln clears his throat. “We’re exploring.”

Devereaux nods. “Right. So, Morris Rolfe is a good way to explore?”

My mind races. I recall the text message about a password: Angelus. But is it enough? “We want to do business with him,” I say carefully. “Word around town is he’s… resourceful.”

Devereaux’s lips twitch. “Resourceful indeed. And what sort of business would that be?”

I swallow, feeling Lincoln’s steady presence at my side. “Information,” I say, picking my words slowly. “We have certain… security needs that require someone with his talents.”

Devereaux studies me, then Lincoln. “And you think dropping by unannounced will endear you to him?”

“We hoped a password might help,” I say, heart pounding. “ Angelus .”

The temperature in the room seems to shift. Devereaux’s eyebrows lift, and he tilts his head. Then, unexpectedly, he bursts into a laugh—low and rich, like he finds the whole thing amusing. “So you do have friends in high places.”

I clamp my hands together in my lap to keep them from trembling. “We know people,” I manage.

Devereaux’s laughter fades, replaced by a contemplative expression. “Very well. I’ll see to it that Rolfe hears of your interest. If he wishes, you’ll get your invite.”

Lincoln’s shoulders relax a fraction. “Thank you.”

Devereaux waves a hand. “Don’t thank me yet. Morris is… particular. He might not trust you right away. You’ll have to prove yourselves worthy. Until then, enjoy my club, spend money, indulge a bit.” He flashes a grin that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “That’s what Club Greed is for, after all.”

I try to keep my breathing steady as we stand. We exchange polite farewells, and Devereaux’s man in the charcoal suit shows us out. My mind reels—this is a major breakthrough, but it also puts us squarely on Rolfe’s radar. We won’t be able to sneak up on him so easily now.

Back in the hallway, I feel Lincoln’s hand on my arm, steadying me. I’m not sure if it’s from the adrenaline or the lingering effect of dancing with him earlier, but my knees feel wobbly.

He leans in. “You all right?”

I nod, swallowing hard. “Yeah, just… it’s a lot.”

His fingers tighten reassuringly. “It was smart not to mention your real last name. Dean would have heard about what we’re doing here in an instant and forced us back to the safe house.” He steps closer. “I’m all for this plan, Isabel, but I also want you to know that we need to be safe.”

I nod. “Right, of course.”

We descend the marble staircase, returning to the pulsing chaos of the club. This time, the music feels louder, the lights more disorienting. My dress clings to my body, and my skin still tingles where Lincoln’s hands touched me on the dance floor.

We find our way back to the bar, half out of necessity—the crowd below is too dense to talk strategy without shouting. By the time we reach the mirrored counter, my heart has finally stopped racing like a runaway train. The same platinum-haired bartender meets our gaze, and I wave her off politely. I’ve had enough sugar and alcohol for one night.

Lincoln checks his phone, though it’s doubtful we’ll get any reception in here. “We should call it a night,” he says quietly, leaning close so only I can hear. “Devereaux’s making contact with Rolfe. We wait for word.”

I glance around, part of me not wanting to leave just yet. The club’s heady atmosphere has wound me up, and a raw, frustrated energy still buzzes through my veins. But I know he’s right. We’ve done everything we can for now.

“Okay,” I say, turning to face him. “Let’s go.”

He rests a hand at my waist, guiding me through the throng of dancing bodies. I feel oddly grateful for his solid presence—without it, I might be swept away by the crush of people. As we near the entrance, I catch one last glimpse of the roped-off area, the shadowy booths behind the curtains. My imagination swirls with questions: Could Rolfe be in there right now, watching us? Or is he still on his way?

We push open the heavy doors, stepping into the cool night air. The sudden contrast makes me shiver, and Lincoln, ever the gentleman, drapes his jacket over my shoulders. My heart does a little flip at the gesture.

“You did good in there,” he says quietly as we walk to the SUV which is waiting for us as the valet stands by the driver’s door. “Quick on your feet.”

I smirk, grateful for the praise. “You too, Lincoln.”

He slips the valet some cash, and we climb into the SUV. The engine purrs to life. As he pulls away from Club Greed, I find myself casting one last glance at the ominous building. A part of me wants to dive right back inside, to feel the pulsing music under my skin and the press of Lincoln’s body against mine on the dance floor. But that’s not who I am—at least, not usually.

I breathe in, letting the tension slowly leave my body. The mission isn’t finished, not by a long shot. We’re just getting started, and we’ve set something in motion that might lead us straight to Morris Rolfe. Yet I can’t shake the lingering desire between me and Lincoln. Every time his eyes flick over to me while he navigates the dark streets, my nerves buzz like a live wire.

“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.