4. January
January
Eamon
For two fucking weeks, I've been unable to do much other than think about my trip to Vegas. Especially the kiss. Can't even really be considered a kiss. It was a violent collision of lips and teeth. A battle of wills, us against our baser instincts.
And we lost.
If someone was stupid enough to ask me why I did it, I wouldn't have an answer for them. All I remember is watching countless people watch her move all night. No one had been suicidal enough to touch her, but as the drunken slurs of numbers counting down began, their self-preservation was giving way to impulse.
My choices had been simple, even if I didn't realize it then. I could stop their advances, or I could wait for them to touch Isla's glistening, soft skin and kill them for it afterward. I'm under no illusions that she wanted me to kiss her, either, but her pliancy when I did was drugging.
I'm watching security cameras as they follow movement in a building that's supposed to be empty on the outskirts of Seattle. Broken windows are the only glimpse I have into the not-so-abandoned warehouse as crates are transported into it.
If anything good came out of Bel's kidnapping, it's this: Knowing where they have a compound on the West Coast let me and my team watch for movement. Vehicles have been transporting weaponry and new initiates back and forth between Seattle and California, giving me something to work with, at least.
Working from the shadows while tracking an enemy that also works in secret is a long, grueling pain in my ass. Every bit of information helps, but they rarely show themselves, preferring to keep their movements hidden from the outside world. If what they're doing came out, no amount of proof would be enough to keep them from being labeled extremists.
Normal humans will refuse to accept what's right in front of them, even if you hand them the truth on a silver platter. It's their curse and my blessing, letting me exist and fight against the real evil among them. It forces The Sanctum to live and die in silence, doing little more than throwing the man Bel killed into a gutter and paying police to call it a mugging.
I ignore the weight in my stomach that occurs when thinking about his death.It was completely avoidable, not by Bel, of course, but by the Sanctus Sculitis themselves.Higher-ups have gotten desperate for members over the last few decades. As the need for religion dwindles, so does the number of willing bodies.
The only way they can continue to gain soldiers is through indoctrination. Another reason Isla has to be kept from them. If they find her and get their hands on her, not only will her blood be used to keep their weaponry functional, but she'll be made to mother the next generation, be it by coercion or force. I may not like the girl, but I'll be damned if I let them do that to someone when I can stop it.
A notification draws my attention from the large screen in front of me to the smaller one on the desk.
Isla got a text.
I didn't need to bug her phone, but it's made keeping tabs on her easier. And I'm man enough to admit to myself that it was fun doing so.
Isla's fucking wasted, passed out draped across her bed in Fritz's penthouse, softly snoring.
Her phone has to be here somewhere.
Gently, I look in all the usual places someone might leave it: the table, near the charging cord, under the table, even peeking into the bathroom. Nothing, which means that, unfortunately, Isla has it on her person.
Fuuuuuck.
With painstakingly gentle touches, I lift her arm, hoping not to disturb her. There's no way I could talk myself out of this one, and she's already fuming mad at me over the whole coat thing. I don't even know if she opened the other gift.
But I'm not wrong. None of this group will do what's necessary to keep Isla safe, and it's only a matter of time until I have to step in.
Regardless, right now, I need to focus on her phone and not her inevitable cross-country relocation. Goosebumps break out across her skin, her body sensing my nearness even when her brain couldn't possibly. The stench of tequila coats her flesh, disguising the delicious aroma beneath.
God fucking damn it, where is it?
I roll her over, and her brows pinch, an unhappy groan leaving her parted lips. I let my eyes rake over her face for just a second, reveling in the softness of her features when they're not scrunched in anger. Her dark brown lashes sweep across her cheeks, casting long shadows. The ultra-defined cupid's bowisevident even with her mouth open.
It's the perfect punishment for me that she's so beautiful. That someone so gorgeous is so inexplicably, infuriatingly stubborn and vicious.
I run a palm down my face as if I could wipe away the thoughts plaguing me of all the ways I could touch her before she would notice. She might not even wake if I run my fingers across her body, half naked in those tiny silk pajamas.
It's more likely that Cas or Fritz will notice me here, and that thought spurs me into action, grabbingher phone fromwhere it had beenunderneath her sleeping form. It only takes seconds to use her code— her birthday— and install the spyware app, connecting it to my phone and removing it from her home screen.
Breathing a sigh of relief that my job is done, I consider tossing the phone where I found it and raising the least amount of suspicion. But somewhere inside me, I just know that if she awakes to a dead phone and any missed calls or emails from work, she'll be pissed. So I plug the silly little device in and, against my better judgment, ease her blanket over her. It might be the middle of the desert, but it's still winter, and she will get cold.
With a final glance, I step into the Aether and back home, where I can watch her from a distance that's safe for both of us.
That was how I knew where they'd be every night, using her microphone and texts between her and Bel to track their every move. By the time New Year's rolled around, watching from afar had gotten so fucking boring that I had to invite myself along to their party, dropping a few hundred dollars with the hostess to add me to their table.
It was easier and more effective to keep an eye on them up close. If it made Isla so fuckingmadshe wouldn't even touch her favorite tequila, that was just a bonus.
And now, between that and the handful of cameras and microphones planted throughout her apartment, I've had 15 days of uninterrupted eyes on Isla.
Which brings us to the text.
Are you free?
With me watching in real time, her phone opens the text, and she starts typing some generic excuse. Halfway through the sentence, she deletes the whole thing and tries again, only to delete it again, swipe out of the messaging app, and lock her phone completely.
It's a Friday night, and the only thing she's done is order some sushi, drink a bottle of sake, and take an ungodly amount of time in the shower. The bathroom is the only room in her apartment we chose not to bug because that's just fucking nasty, and I'm not going to invade her privacy that way.
Once again, she's walking around in pajamas that can barely be considered clothing at all, the silk drifting against her skin as she paces her apartment, clearly going out of her mind with boredom. Why she's not going out, I can only guess.
Within a few weeks, her entire view of the world was flipped on its head, followed by the only person she considers family moving a whole state away. An adjustment period is warranted, but I can't help the pit in my stomach, watching her exist in this world, drifting through it just as alone as I feel.
Not that I don't have my team. I confide in them almost everything. But the loneliness, the longing for something more than this, that is my burden and mine alone to carry while they all keep each other company during the quiet days and loud nights.
A buzzing sound reaches my ears, and I think someone must be trying to contact Isla again. I reach for my phone, wondering how many other possible suitors she's willing to turn down before she gives someone a chance to stave off her aching isolation.
Jesus Christ.
Not her phone.
A vibrator.
Somehow, between the time it took me to stop looking at her and start feeling fucking sorry for myself, she managed to strip, sink below her blanket, and start up that fucking thing again. It's not the first time she's brought it out since I've been watching, but it is the first time that it's been at a time when I have nowhere else to be and nothing else to focus my attention on.
I should walk away. Should stick to my whole "not invading privacy" thing.
But I can't. Isla's covered up by the blanket, so it's not like I can see what she's doing anyway. The camera nearest her bed, hidden within the massive collection of plants she's amassed, keeps her partially hidden from my view, protecting her modesty.
But that doesn't stop the stirring of my cock, the way it twitches and aches for a better look at how she pleasures herself. From here, all I see is the blanket as it lifts and falls, her hand dragging the toy up and down her midriff and chest as she breathes heavily, easing her body into the sensations.
I will my body to calm, to stop watching her and imagining how warm her body is, how it felt when I had her trapped in my grip, taking exactly what I wanted from her and giving her what she was too scared to wish for.
She teases herself for what might be hours , not letting the toy travel between her legs until she and I are panting for it. She's taking forever , and I'm the fucking sucker sitting here with my dick trapped uselessly behind my zipper. No matter what happens, I'm not taking it out. I'm not. This isn't about how fucking hot she is, how much her body tempts me. This is about keeping her safe, and if that means watching her even when she's working herself into a frenzy, that's what I'll have to do.
Finally, a desperate, quiet noise drifts out of her mouth, like she can't hold it back any longer, the buzz quieting as the toy finds purchase between her legs. Whether it's against her clit or inside her body, I have no idea, but the vision destroys my sense of self all the same. Her hips rock, one hand trapping the toy right where she needs it, the other right at her breasts, playing with them as she loses herself to the sensations.
Her moans and sighs grow, as does the pain in my groin as I watch her. The need wins out, and I palm myself through my jeans, shame, and relief filling my body with heat.
She lets out a frustrated almost shriek, struggling to come with all the alcohol slowing her system. Even as tipsy as she is, I know I could make her come over and over again. Find every spot she doesn't know exists inside her body, fill her with pleasure she's only dreamed of. If I were there, nothing would stop me from making her scream for me, bend for me, break for me and only me.
But as it is, all I can do is watch and grip my painful hard-on. Isla's hand reappears from the blanket, wrapping around her own throat, and I almost finish in my pants from the sight alone. Her fingers flex around her delicate throat, pressing against where her blood pumps furiously, a light-headed groan escaping her lips as she does.
A growl rumbles up in my chest as her hips rock under the blanket and her grip on her throat tightens. Her hand is far too small for her neck, and I imagine my own wrapping around it fiercely, swallowing up the entire column with my palm and watching as her eyes go glassy from the pleasure and loss of oxygen to her brain.
The desperate, filthy sounds leaving her mouth grow more frantic, her orgasm finally building. Come on, little hunter. Let go and make a fucking mess for me ; the words radiate through my mind, exactly what I would be breathing into her ear if she were beneath me, taking my cock and chasing the peak she needs so fucking badly.
All at once, she releases the pressure on her throat, and her peak slams into her body at the same time as the deep breath she can finally take, releasing a throaty, deep scream of a sound as her hips move frantically, the sheets tangling in her legs as she writhes over and over through the high.
A sympathetic groan sneaks out before I can stop it, the humiliation of watching someone get themselves off washing over me as soon as she's finished. Before I can see her naked, flushed, and sated body as she climbs out of bed, I stand so quickly that the chair behind me falls to the floor, storming off to take a cold shower and trying to wash away the shame and stubborn arousal.
I can't fucking stand to watch her the following day, putting Kyle on Isla duty from his office while I blow off a little steam in the form of a swim around the island. How much trouble could she get into in one day?
A lot.
Too fucking much.
One goddamn fucking day, and she almost got caught by those fucks.
Storming through the compound and almost killing Kyle for not warning me, I settled into my computer, shouting at him over the phone for 30 minutes no matter how many times he explained to me that there was no way to reach me since I was half a mile off the coast. No matter that that's the only place in the whole world that was cold enough to draw all of my focus on the frigid temperature and not the scalding way my blood feels when I think of the little hunter on the other side of the cameras.
They had her. Right there, not a block from their compound, surrounded by armed soldiers, one of which was her fucking cousin and knew exactly how vital she is.
And yet, she managed to get out. Somehow.
And I can't look away from her now, comforting her friend that got her into this mess in the first place.
Rationally, I know it's not Bel's fault, or Caspian's, or even fucking Fritz's. They try to keep her out of it, but she's so stubborn she would have tracked them down no matter what they said to keep her away. In any other circumstance, I might admire her loyalty, her love for her friend, and, by extension, the two demons with her. But as it is, I want to fucking throttle her for being so reckless.
I have no interest in what she says to comfort her friend. The only thing I need to hear is that Fritz, for once, has the good sense to tell Belissendathatthey are not going back to save Caspian. It's a real, honest-to-god tragedy that they got Cas. Nobody deserves the shit they'll put him through. But what did they expect? They flagrantly bounced into the Sanctus Sculitis's territory and thought they could walk right back out. Two out of three escaping is a far better number than it could have been.
And while she's spent the last several days crying and puking and wasting away, she's so lucky that she still has someone. So fucking lucky, and she has no idea. Most of us face them and crawl away with nothing and no one.
Ignoring what must be the tenth call from Fritz, I consider throwing my phone and letting it shatter against the concrete wall. Wouldn't be the first time.
Instead, my glance down shows me another number. One that would never be calling me.
Fixing my spine with steel, I answer the same way I always do, regardless of the caller, determined to remain cool and calm, "Yeah."
"Hi, Eamon," Isla's falsely soft, placating voice travels through the receiver, "How are you?"
"No."
With a tsk, her voice returns to the frigidness I'm used to, "Come on. You have to do something. They got one of your people."
"I warned you guys, Isla. I fucking warned you. It's not my fault none of you have any sense. Leave me out of it." If there is a merciful god, please let her drop this. Let them move on and live peacefully.
But I already know there isn't one, so she presses the matter further, her throat clogging with the tears she refuses to let fall when I might become aware of them.
With all the grit and commanding tone I can muster, I bark into the phone, "I ain't fucking doing it. And if you do anything reckless, I'll drag your ass outta there faster than you can say mercy."
A cruel, harsh laugh makes my blood heat with fury, and she responds with a flippant, "Got it."
This time,my phone doesn't survive the onslaught of rage, shattering against the wall.
She can't be stupid enough to go back there.
She's absolutely going to be stupid enough to go back there.
I storm through the compound until I find another phone, calling Kyle immediately and telling him to gather everyone who can get there by morning and have them ready.
"By morning?" he asks in disbelief. "You expect anyone to make it here within the next 10 hours?"
"I expect everyone there within the next ten hours. And if they're not, they're fucking done."
I could get there immediately, but what I can't do is stop all three of them from pursuing this while also making the necessary arrangements to get Isla the fuck away from the people willing to put her in this predicament again.
Foregoing sleep, Ispendthe entire night creating and submitting her fake documents for her very large move, followed by bookingalast minuteflight with two seats right next to each other,and a boat to take us all the way out here. Ihirea moving company to arrive in the afternoon, shipping her things to a warehouse in St. Paul.
By the time I meet my team to fix the fuck-show she's a part of, everything is already in place for her long-term vacation in the middle of the Atlantic.
The only thing I have left to do is get her there in one piece.
Fuck.