Page 9

Lincoln

I rub the back of my neck as I step through the front door of the safe house, the echo of the club’s pulsing bass still thudding in my veins. The darkness outside seems infinite, only broken by the dim porch light we left on. The chill of the night air has already seeped into my jacket. It’s not freezing, but the temperature shift is enough to remind me we’re no longer in the thick, sultry heat of Club Greed. We’re back to reality—whatever that means for Isabel and me.

I move aside so she can slip in before me. The moment she crosses the threshold, her heels click on the hardwood, and I catch a subtle whiff of her perfume, something warm and floral that I’m pretty sure is going to haunt me for days. I flick on the foyer light, revealing the cozy interior. Everything is exactly the way we left it: living room neat, kitchen clean, laptops piled on the table. Like we never even left. Yet I feel like an entirely different man than the one who walked out the door earlier.

Isabel closes the door, latches it, then turns to me with a small, exhausted smile. I see the flush of the night’s excitement still lingering in her cheeks. Under the overhead bulb, her black dress shimmers faintly, showcasing every graceful curve. My gaze can’t help sliding over her, taking in the bare skin at her shoulders and the hint of leg visible through the dress’s slit. A wave of need tightens my chest.

I clear my throat, shrugging out of my jacket. “You want something to drink? Water, maybe?”

She exhales softly, setting her clutch on the side table. “Yeah. That’d be nice. My throat’s scratchy from trying to talk over all the noise.”

I nod, heading to the kitchen. The safe house is open-concept, so it’s only a few steps away—just enough distance for me to catch my breath. Maybe calm the relentless drum of desire pounding in my chest. Between the dancing, the heated stares, and the pretense of being a couple in that club, I’m more keyed up than I’ve been in a long time. Certainly more than I should be while on a job.

I grab two glasses from the cupboard and fill them at the sink. My mind replays the moment in the club when I slid my hand onto Isabel’s thigh, and she pressed closer to me like she couldn’t get enough. The memory still sizzles in my veins, making me grit my teeth. I’m supposed to be protecting her, not wanting her.

When I turn around, she’s leaning against the edge of the kitchen island, arms folded under her chest. Her eyes flick up to mine, a hint of amusement there. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” I mutter, handing her a glass. “Just… that was overstimulating.”

She nods, taking a long sip of water. “Tell me about it.” Then she sets her glass down, lips curving. “I thought we did pretty well, though. With Devereaux, I mean.”

Right—Devereaux. Our entire mission hinged on making an impression on that guy, and apparently, we did. My gut still twists at how brazen we were, name-dropping “Angelus,” essentially forcing his hand to let us into Rolfe’s orbit. But if we want to track Morris Rolfe and figure out who’s been threatening Isabel, we didn’t have much choice.

“We did,” I agree quietly, taking a gulp of my own water. It soothes my own dry throat and gives me a moment to think. “I can’t believe you used my last name, though.”

She snickers, brushing a stray strand of hair off her forehead. “It just came out. ‘Isabel Zane’ sounded good in the moment. I just didn’t want to rope Dean into this plan.”

I shake my head, a wry smile tugging at my lips. “You realize now we’re gonna have to pretend to be married, right? If Rolfe or Devereaux contacts us, that’s the backstory.”

She bites her lower lip. “You mind? I mean, if you’d rather pretend we’re siblings or cousins or something, I’m open to ideas.” Her mischievous grin tells me she’s well aware how ridiculous that would be.

I let out a short laugh. “Yeah, because cousins definitely dance like we did tonight.” The words come out laced with more longing than I intend. A flush creeps up my neck as her expression flickers. “No, using my name was smart,” I add, clearing my throat. “It cements the idea that we’re a couple. A serious couple.”

She nods, and for a moment, neither of us speaks. The air feels thick, laden with unspoken tension. Finally, she tips her head toward the hallway. “I’m gonna go change. These heels are killing me, and I need to get out of this dress.”

My stomach clenches at the mental image of her slipping out of that black number in her room. “Right,” I say, turning away to place my glass in the sink. “I’ll, uh… I’ll be in my room if you need me.”

“Sounds good,” she murmurs. I watch from the corner of my eye as she disappears down the hall, hips swaying just enough to remind me how worked up I still am.

Once she’s gone, I exhale hard, bracing my palms on the edge of the sink. The memory of her body pressed against mine on the dance floor is burned into my brain—her soft sigh against my ear, the brush of her fingers at the back of my neck. I need to cool off, both mentally and physically.

For a few seconds, I just stand there, letting the quiet of the house wash over me. No thrumming bass or neon lights. It’s almost surreal that less than an hour ago, we were in the depths of that club, forging a path into a dangerous world. Now, it’s just me, alone in the glow of the kitchen light, grappling with feelings I never asked for.

I shake my head. “Pull yourself together, Zane,” I mutter under my breath, then make my way to my room.

Inside the bedroom—if you can call the small space a bedroom—I flick on the lamp. The walls are painted a neutral gray, and the bed is nothing fancy: just a queen-sized mattress with standard white sheets. Everything about this place is meant to blend in, unremarkable for a reason. Normally, that would calm me, but tonight, all I can think about is how this is the first time I’ve done a job with such… personal stakes.

I tug off my tie, throwing it over the back of a chair in the corner. Then I ease the suit jacket from my shoulders, draping it carefully. A pang of guilt hits me—this thing cost more than I’d usually spend in a year on clothing, but it was necessary to look the part tonight. At least, that’s what I keep telling myself.

My phone buzzes on the nightstand, lighting up the dark surface with a harsh hue. I tense, half-expecting it might be Devereaux or one of his goons. But the screen shows Dean’s name. Of course. Right on time. My stomach lurches at the thought of telling him the truth: that his sister and I just infiltrated a secret sex club to track down a black-market criminal who’s probably behind the threats aimed at her. Yeah, that’ll go over well.

Gritting my teeth, I pick up. “Dean.”

“Hey, Lincoln,” comes his familiar voice, tinged with relief. “How’s it going?”

I steady my tone, forcing what I hope sounds like casual calm. “Not bad. Just finished for the day. Isabel’s here, safe and sound.”

Dean exhales, like he’s been holding his breath. “Good. I was worried. You guys okay out there?”

My gaze flicks to the closed bedroom door. I can’t hear Isabel, but I’m sure she’s in her own room, peeling off that dress. My mind stubbornly conjures an image of her unzipping it, letting it pool around her feet… I close my eyes, trying to banish the thought. “Yeah. Everything’s fine,” I say, forcing a light tone.

“Hmm,” Dean replies, not entirely convinced. “Well, you’d tell me if something was going on, right? If those threats got worse?”

I swallow, rubbing my temple. Every word out of my mouth right now is a lie or half-truth. “Of course. But there’s no new info. She’s just been… restless, you know. She hates being cooped up.”

Dean snorts, a wry laugh. “That sounds like my sister. Listen, man, if you need backup?—”

“I’ve got this,” I interject firmly, hoping to end this conversation before I slip up. “We’ll call you if anything changes. Promise.”

There’s a pause, and I picture Dean’s furrowed brow. “All right. Just keep her safe, yeah?”

“I will,” I say, quiet but resolute. “That’s my job.”

“Good. Well, thanks, Lincoln.” Dean hesitates. “I owe you, big time.”

A surge of guilt hits me like a punch to the gut. He has no idea what’s really happening—or that I’ve helped his sister walk straight into more danger by hunting down her potential attacker. But it’s the only way to stop whoever’s threatening her, and I’ll be damned if I stand by doing nothing. “You don’t owe me anything,” I murmur. “Just doing what you hired me to do.”

We exchange goodbyes, and I end the call, staring down at my phone for a long moment. My reflection in the dark screen looks tired, haunted by secrets. I toss it onto the bed, then sink into the chair near the corner, elbows on my knees.

What the hell have I gotten myself into?

She’s in danger—there’s no question about that. If we manage to lure Rolfe out, corner him, we might get answers about the threats. But the deeper I get, the more I realize that it’s not just her life at stake. My own sense of control is unraveling. I keep replaying images of her from the club: the way her lips parted when she laughed, the arch of her back against my chest as we danced. It’s like every boundary I’ve carefully set for myself is crumbling.

And now we’re married—pretend married, anyway. That’s going to complicate an already complicated situation. I draw in a long breath, then exhale slowly. I need a plan—a real one, not just reacting to each new twist. But right now, my brain is so wired from the evening’s events that I can’t think straight.

I lean back, closing my eyes, trying to slow my racing thoughts.

Knock, Knock.

A soft knock on my door jolts me upright. My heart thumps. Isabel. For a moment, I consider ignoring it, not sure I have the mental fortitude for whatever tension might unfold if we talk face to face. But my sense of duty—or maybe curiosity—wins out. I push myself to my feet, crossing the room in a few strides to open the door.

She stands there in an oversized T-shirt and a pair of cotton shorts, hair brushed out so it falls around her shoulders in a loose wave. The makeup she wore is mostly washed off, leaving her face softer, more vulnerable. Yet she’s still breathtaking, especially with a faint flush coloring her cheeks. Probably from scrubbing off all that club glitter.

“Hey,” she says quietly, glancing up at me. “Everything okay?”

I lean against the doorframe, trying to project calm when I’m anything but. “Fine. Dean just called.”

She winces a little. “He worried?”

“Yeah,” I admit, stepping aside. “You wanna come in?”

She hesitates for a moment, then slips past me, her bare feet making no sound on the carpet. I catch a trace of her usual scent—something subtle, like vanilla—and it tugs at a corner of my heart. Shutting the door, I turn to see her standing in the center of the room, gazing at the neat bed and the single chair.

“So,” she says, lifting her gaze to meet mine. “You tell him what we did tonight?”

I shake my head, slipping my hands into my pockets. “No way. He’d lose it. I just said we’ve been lying low. Didn’t want him interfering before we get the real story on whoever’s behind these threats.”

She nods, lips pressing into a thoughtful line. “Makes sense. Dean’s always been… overprotective. It’s why he hired you in the first place.” A wry smile lifts one corner of her mouth. “But, you’re lying to him for me now. That’s new.”

My chest tightens. “I don’t like lying to him,” I say carefully, “but yeah. If it keeps you safe, I’ll do it.”

She looks away, tension in her shoulders. “I never asked you to lie for me.”

I close the distance between us, stopping just a foot or two away. “You didn’t have to. We’re in this together, remember?”

Her gaze snaps back to mine, and the crackle of awareness flares between us. I can almost hear the unspoken question: Are we really in this together, or am I just doing my job? My pulse quickens. For a moment, I consider telling her exactly how I feel—how I’ve fought these emotions for months, maybe longer, but they only intensified once I was assigned to protect her. But that would be a mistake. I can’t risk letting my personal feelings compromise the mission.

She exhales, rubbing her arms as though cold. “It’s been a long night. I just… couldn’t sleep without making sure you were okay.”

Something about the concern in her eyes undoes me. She’s worried about me, the man who’s supposed to be looking after her. “I’m fine,” I say softly. “A little wound up, maybe, but fine.”

She gives a quiet laugh. “Wound up is an understatement. I still feel like I’m vibrating from that club. I’ve never been anywhere like that before.” Her cheeks pinken. “It was surprisingly fun, and different.”

I nod, forcing a half-smile. “Yeah, it was.”

Her gaze drops to my chest, where the top few buttons of my dress shirt remain undone, exposing a bit of skin. She swallows. “And dancing with you…”

I hold my breath, not sure if I can handle whatever she’s about to say. My mind replays the scene in strobe-lit flashes: her body aligned with mine, the hot press of her curves, the sound of her gasp when I trailed my hand up her thigh. Every muscle in my body tenses with the memory.

Finally, she looks up, eyes shining with vulnerability. “I guess it just felt real for a minute. Like we were actually?—”

“Don’t,” I cut in gently, stepping back half a pace. If she finishes that sentence, I might do something I can’t take back. “It was part of the cover, right?” The words taste bitter, even as I say them.

Her expression falters. “Right. Part of the cover.” She forces a short laugh that doesn’t reach her eyes. “That’s all.”

We stand in loaded silence, the unspoken tension swirling between us. I can see the flicker of disappointment on her face, and it kills me more than I care to admit. I want to bridge that distance, cup her cheek, tell her it wasn’t just an act for me. But that’s not fair—to her, to Dean, or to the mission.

I clear my throat. “We should probably get some rest. Tomorrow we can figure out our next move. Maybe reach out to Devereaux again, or wait for him to contact us.”

“Yeah,” she agrees, voice soft. “Sleep sounds good.” She hesitates, then turns toward the door. Before she leaves, she glances over her shoulder. “Night, Lincoln.”

“Night,” I echo, my voice husky with everything I’m not saying.

When the door clicks shut behind her, I stand there, staring at the worn wood grain, a thousand conflicting emotions tearing me apart. If it were anyone else—any other case—I wouldn’t let it get this personal. But Isabel isn’t just anyone. She’s strong, clever, and heartbreakingly beautiful in a way that breaks down all my defenses. And because of that, I’m lying to Dean, risking my career, and flirting with the possibility of something that could blow up in both our faces.

I rake a hand through my hair and let out a shaky breath. The tension in my body is coiled, like a tight spring ready to snap. Part of me is tempted to knock on her door, start a conversation we can’t finish. But I know better. If we cross that line, there’s no going back. And I still have a job to do—protect her at all costs, figure out who’s threatening her, and stop them before it’s too late.

I flip off the lamp, plunging the room into darkness. My eyes adjust slowly, the shadows of the furniture turning to muted silhouettes. I kick off my shoes and peel away the rest of my clothes, muscles aching from the tension of the night. The sheets are cool when I slip between them, and I stare at the ceiling, trying to force my mind to slow down.

But I can’t stop thinking about how she pressed against me at the club, how she looked up at me with those wide, gray eyes. I can’t stop replaying the way she said my name—like she meant more than just “Lincoln, the bodyguard.” I shift, shutting my eyes tight. No, I can’t go there. Not when there’s so much at stake.

For a long time, I lie awake, listening to the hush of the air conditioning kicking on and off, the faint creaks of an old house settling in the night. It’s almost worse than the pounding music at Club Greed—at least there, the noise distracted me. Here, in the silent dark, I have no choice but to face the truth. I’m in deeper than I should be, and we still don’t have concrete answers about who’s after Isabel.

Eventually, exhaustion tugs me under, my mind drifting in a restless haze of neon lights, the swirl of her dress, and the taste of whiskey on my tongue. And just before I slip into real sleep, the final, traitorous thought that filters through is how right it felt, holding her in my arms, even if it was just pretend.