Chapter 13
13
ISABEL
I t was after midnight, but the party was just getting started.
I hadn’t planned on ending up at The Sound Barn, but maybe I had been looking for a reason to let loose, to forget the tangled mess of emotions Ryker had left in his wake.
Sasha had insisted I needed a night out, something to shake off the tension that had settled into my bones ever since I walked out of Dominion Hall. Ryker had been busy when I left. I doubt he’d noticed I was gone.
Sasha was probably right. I probably needed the heavy bass vibrating through the floorboards, the neon lights casting electric shadows over the crowd, the press of bodies moving in sync with the music. I probably needed the feeling of someone—anyone—watching me with something other than scrutiny, something light and easy.
The Citadel guys that had shown up had been an afterthought. Harmless flirtation. Just another piece of the distraction I was desperately reaching for. After all, they were everywhere in this town.
The one dancing with me—tall, broad, too preppy to hold my attention for long—had slid his hands onto my hips, his breath warm against my ear as he murmured something I didn’t quite catch. I laughed anyway, tilting my head back, letting the music drown out everything else. For a moment, it almost worked.
Until I felt it.
A slow, creeping awareness, like heat licking up my spine. My body knew before my mind did, a sharp, instinctual pull that told me I was no longer just another girl in a club.
I was being watched.
Not in the way my dance partner was watching me, not like the other men in the room whose gazes skimmed over my curves with casual interest. This was different—heavier, unrelenting, like a claim being stamped into my skin. I was beginning to recognize the feeling.
I turned slowly, heart hammering against my ribs, my gaze searching the balcony above the dance floor.
And then—I found him.
Ryker stood against the metal railing, his hands braced against it, his posture deceptively relaxed. But his eyes—dark, sharp, burning—were locked onto me. He didn’t move. Didn’t blink. He just watched, his presence wrapping around me like a noose.
For a split second, the rest of the club ceased to exist. The flashing lights, the pounding music, the hands on my hips—all of it blurred into nothing beneath the weight of Ryker’s stare.
The tall Citadel guy leaned in again, oblivious. “You okay?”
I barely heard him. My pulse was too loud, my body already remembering that I hadn’t finished what I’d started in the bathroom yesterday.
Then Ryker moved.
He pushed off the railing, cutting through the crowd like a shadow slicing through light. He didn’t fight against the bodies pressing around him—he didn’t have to. People moved instinctively, parting in his wake like they could sense the violence simmering beneath his surface.
He was coming for me. I swallowed hard, torn between standing my ground and turning to run.
Who was I kidding? There was nowhere to run. I’m not even sure how he’d found me here.
By the time I took my next breath, he was at my side, his body crowding mine, his grip wrapping around my wrist like steel. The tall Citadel guy straightened, his brows pulling together in confusion, but Ryker didn’t spare him a single glance.
Instead, his mouth was at my ear, his voice a rough, dangerous rasp that sent a shudder straight through me.
“Is this what you wanted?” His breath was warm against my skin, but his grip on my wrist was anything but. It was firm, possessive, unyielding, as if he was reminding me exactly who I belonged to. “Letting another kid put his hands on you?”
“Ryker,” I said, my voice even.
The Citadel guy shifted, his gaze sliding to Ryker like he was trying to measure whether he was a threat.
He had no idea.
"You looked like you were having fun," Ryker said, his voice deceptively calm.
I arched a brow, shifting my weight to one hip, the movement making the hem of my dress rise a little higher. "I was. "
The Citadel guy—all limbs and eager bravado—stood a few inches taller than me, but next to Ryker, he looked like a boy playing dress-up in his stiffly pressed uniform. His frame was lean, almost gangly, the kind that suggested he spent more time perfecting his salute than throwing a real punch. His uniform was crisp, buttons polished, posture ramrod straight—textbook Citadel discipline, but not real-world experience. His jaw was clean-shaven, his hands unscarred, his stance confident—but not dangerous. Not lethal.
Not like Ryker.
Matt Ralston had been the same way. Cocky. Na?ve. Thinking the Citadel had prepared him for men like Ryker.
But Matt had learned the hard way.
And from the way Ryker slowly turned, giving this guy the full weight of his attention, it was clear he hadn’t learned from Matt’s mistake.
Where the cadet’s presence was practiced, Ryker’s was undeniable. He stood with the kind of stillness that came from knowing he was the most dangerous man in the room. Power coiled beneath his broad shoulders, restrained but ready to be unleashed at the slightest provocation. There was nothing forced about him, nothing that needed validation.
And when he finally spoke—his voice calm, flat, absolute—it sent a slow chill down my spine.
“Walk away.”
The guy’s brows furrowed. "Excuse me?"
"You heard me," Ryker said, taking a step closer. "You don’t want to be standing there in five seconds."
My eyes flashed. “Ryker.”
He wasn’t looking at me. He was looking at the poor Citadel guy, daring him to push this, to make it a problem.
The guy’s jaw ticked. He glanced at me, then at Sasha, like he was trying to gauge whether this was worth it.
Then he made the smart choice.
"Whatever, man," he muttered, stepping back, his hands lifting like it wasn’t worth the fight. "Let’s go," he said to his friend, and just like that, they disappeared into the crowd.
Ryker exhaled slowly, rolling his shoulders back before cutting his gaze to Sasha, who was smirking like she had orchestrated the whole thing.
Ryker and Sasha had not yet been formally introduced, but this wasn’t the time.
"I’m gonna get another drink," Sasha said, flicking her eyes between the two of us before slipping away, leaving Ryker and me alone.
I didn’t speak right away. Just stood there, hands on my hips.
"You’re unbelievable," I said finally, shaking my head.
Ryker took a step closer, crowding my space. "Yeah? And what the hell are you doing, Isabel?”
"Dancing," I shot back. “Like I said, having fun."
"With them?" He jerked his chin toward the guys who were already pretending none of this had happened.
I let out a sharp breath, my hands clenching at my sides. "What is your problem, Ryker?”
"My problem," he said, voice low, "is that you don’t know what kind of attention you attract when you dress like that."
I laughed, short and incredulous. "Dress like what? "
He dragged his gaze over me, slow and deliberate, watching as heat crept up my neck.
"You know what," he said.
"I’m allowed to dress however I want."
He tilted his head. "You think you are."
I narrowed my eyes. "Excuse me?"
He stepped even closer, close enough for me to catch the scent of whatever cologne he was wearing. It was intoxicating.
"You don’t get it, do you?" Ryker murmured, his voice dark, quiet. "You step out in a dress like this, and every single guy in here is thinking about what it would take to get you out of it."
"And you?" I asked softly. "Are you thinking about that, too?"
A muscle in his jaw ticked. "Every fucking second."
My exhale was shaky, my eyes locked onto his. Then, just as quickly, I straightened, smoothing my hands down the front of my dress.
"Well," I said lightly, "maybe that’s your problem."
Ryker gritted his teeth. “Isabel,” he warned.
I bit my lip. "If you don’t like it, you should probably stop watching."
That did it. He closed the space between us in a single step, towering over me, the low thrum of the music barely registering anymore.
"You think I watch you, Isabel?” A challenge.
I didn’t back down. "I know you do."
A slow, wicked smirk curved Ryker’s mouth. "Oh, sweetheart. Watching is the least of my problems."
I swallowed. I’ll admit it—I was testing him. Begging him to break first. He looked like he was on the verge of doing exactly that.
He reached out, his fingers brushing along the hem of my dress where it skimmed the tops of my thighs. I sucked in a sharp breath, but I didn’t move away. Instead, I stayed rooted to the spot, electricity snapping between us like a live wire.
"You walked in here wearing this," Ryker murmured, voice thick with something dark and possessive. "Dancing like that. Laughing with those fucking guys like you had no idea what you were doing." His fingers ghosted higher. "Tell me something. Did you wear this for them?"
My eyes widened, my lips parting, but no sound came out.
He leaned in, brushing his mouth against the shell of my ear. "Or did you wear it for me?"
I shivered. Shivered.
My fingers twitched at my sides. I didn’t know whether to push him away or pull him closer. I didn’t answer, but I didn’t need to. My stomach tightened at the heat in his tone, my skin already betraying me, already leaning into him when I should have been pushing away.
“You don’t get to—” I tried, but the words came out breathless, breaking apart as his fingers tightened at my hip, dragging me flush against him.
That was when I felt it.
The hard, undeniable evidence of just how much I affected him.
A sharp, involuntary gasp slipped past my lips.
Fuck.
His other hand moved, trailing higher up my thigh, his thumb brushing beneath the hem of my dress, teasing the sensitive skin with barely-there strokes. A low chuckle rumbled in his chest, dark and knowing, like he could feel the way I was unraveling .
“I asked you a question.” His lips brushed against my ear, and I shivered. “Did you wear this for me?”
Not exactly.
Maybe this morning, but tonight, I had come here to forget about Ryker Dane.
Now, he had wrapped himself around me like a vice, dragging me into the fire all over again.
Before I could answer, before I could even process the sheer intensity of his presence, he was grabbing my hand, leading me away from the dance floor without a word of explanation.
I let him. God help me, I let him.
The moment we stepped into the humid Charleston air, the night wrapped around us, thick and heavy, the sounds of the club fading behind the brick walls. I barely had time to catch my breath before he was on me.
His mouth crashed against mine, his body pinning me against the wall, his knee parting my thighs like he had every right to.
I moaned into the kiss, my fingers digging into his shirt, dragging him closer, closer, closer.
“You’re a fucking brat,” he growled, his teeth nipping at my bottom lip, his hands sliding beneath my dress to find exactly how soaked I was for him. “You like pushing me, don’t you?”
I whimpered, my hips arching into his touch. “Maybe.”
“Yeah?” His fingers teased the edge of my panties, barely touching, making me ache. “Then let’s see how much you can take.”
And then—he slipped two strong fingers inside me, stretching me with a slow, deliberate ease that had my entire body arching off the wall. A strangled gasp tore from my throat, my nails digging into his shoulders, clutching at the hard muscle beneath his shirt like I was trying to anchor myself to reality. But reality didn’t exist anymore.
Not here.
Not with Ryker pinning me in the shadows of a Charleston alley, his breath hot against my ear, his body a solid, unyielding force pressing me exactly where he wanted me.
“Ryker—”
“Shh.” He kissed the words off my lips, his pace teasing, torturous. His voice was a growl against my mouth, his thumb brushing against my aching clit, sending lightning through my veins. “Let me take care of you.”
I couldn’t think. Could barely breathe. My entire world had narrowed to this moment, to this man, to the way he was unraveling me.
His fingers moved inside me—deep, skilled, knowing, teasing out every ounce of tension, every ounce of resistance, until all that was left was want.
“Ryker—” My voice was a breathless plea, the syllables breaking apart as a fresh wave of pleasure coiled tight in my belly.
He swallowed the sound with a kiss, his mouth bruising, relentless, his tongue sweeping inside to taste every desperate sound I tried to make. The rhythm of his hand matched the slow, punishing drag of his lips, each stroke pushing me closer, winding me tighter.
I shuddered, my head falling back against the rough brick, the contrast between its cool surface and his burning touch making me feel fevered, untethered, on the brink of something I had never felt before .
He was too much. Too much heat, too much power, too much knowing. He knew exactly what he was doing. Knew exactly how to keep me dangling over the edge, how to make me crave more, how to make me fall apart just for him.
I clung to him, thighs trembling, my breath coming in ragged gasps as his fingers curled just right, stroking that devastatingly sensitive spot inside me with a precision that made me see stars.
Tighter. Tighter.
Higher. Higher.
I was so close. So damn close.
I was seconds away. So close I could taste it, my entire body straining toward release, every muscle in me coiling, clenching, reaching?—
And then?—
A deep, wicked chuckle against my throat.
A slow, deliberate retreat of his fingers.
And the sudden, agonizing loss of contact.
He stopped. He didn’t let me finish.
The loss was violent, a sharp, aching emptiness that left me gasping, reaching for him, my body desperate for more.
“Ryker,” I choked out, my voice shaking with need, frustration, fury—but the bastard was already stepping back, leaving me panting, wrecked, and trembling against the wall.
His hand, the one that had just been inside me, rose to my mouth, his fingers glistening with the evidence of just how badly I had wanted him. Of how badly I still did.
I was still shaking, my thighs pressed together for any relief, when I saw it .
The guilt in his eyes.
Something was wrong. This wasn’t just about jealousy. This wasn’t just about us. Something else had brought him here tonight.
“Tell me.”