Chapter 11 #2
Isaiah drags a hand through his damp hair, glaring at the door like it personally insulted him, then looks back at me, smirk curling against his fury. “Angel, if I open that door, someone’s going to die.”
I smile, nudging him back with a playful shove. “I’ll help you bury the body.”
Isaiah whistles low, dragging his gaze over me with open hunger. A crooked grin spreads across his face. “Fuck, that is the sexiest thing you’ve ever said to me, Angel.”
The knocks rap again—harder, more insistent this time.
With an irritated growl, Isaiah pushes off the bed and stalks toward the door. He yanks it open without a second thought.
Asher stands there, arms crossed, jaw tight, impatience radiating off him like heat. His cool gray eyes flick from Isaiah to me, sprawled on the bed in nothing but Zay’s shirt and boxers.
“You were supposed to be downstairs ten minutes ago,” Asher says flatly, his gaze narrowing. Then, after a beat, his eyes cut to me. “Why isn’t Valentina dressed?”
Isaiah leans lazily against the doorframe, smirking wide and infuriating. “That’s because I prefer her undressed.” He winks at me, shameless, and I toss one of his pillows at him, but he just catches it and gives me a stomach flipping boyish smile.
“Why do I need to get dressed?” I giggle,
Isaiah pushes off the frame and strides over to the dresser, tugging a shirt out of the dresser with ease.
My cheeks burn, heat crawling down my neck, but I refuse to look away. Isaiah’s grin only widens when he catches my stare.
Asher exhales slowly through his nose, the only sign of his annoyance. “We need to get you clothes, so we’re going to the mall.”
I bolt upright, the words hitting me like a jolt of caffeine. A grin spreads across my face before I can stop it. “Are you serious?”
My heart surges. I have been stuck in this house for two weeks…I think. I have been itching to go outside, and get out of the Raider bubble. You know, breathe some real fresh air!
Isaiah’s head snaps toward me, narrowing his eyes.
“Don’t get too excited, Angel.” His voice is edged with warning as he slams the dresser drawer shut.
“This isn’t a field trip. You’re not running around playing house.
You two are going to get some new clothes and come right back.
No detours.” He looks up as Asher narrows his eyes as he repeats himself again. “No detours.”
I shoot him a look, my chest still buzzing with hope. “I wasn’t planning on skipping down the block, Zay, but wait are you not coming?”
“I’m coming into town with you, but I’ve got a couple enforcer stops to make first,” he says with a wink, like it’s no big deal.
Isaiah had explained his role in the Raiders before, but hearing it and watching it were two very different things.
He’s not just muscle. He’s the last resort.
When someone crosses the Raiders—skips out on their dues, runs their mouth too loud, forgets where their loyalty lies—Isaiah’s the one who pays them a visit and makes an example of them.
The thought of him prowling through town on those errands sends a shiver racing down my spine, my thighs pressing instinctively tighter together.
He’s so devoted, so gentle with me—but I can’t help wondering what Isaiah would look like when he’s mean, angry, and utterly unforgiving.
It must be glorious, a perfect gorgeous sight.
Isaiah walks in front of me with blue jeans hanging off his hips, a black shirt thrown over his shoulder, and grey sweats in his hand.
“But don’t even think about running from Asher,” he adds, his grin crooked, though his eyes gleam sharp as a blade. “He’s a lot meaner than Xav.”
I roll my eyes, trying to brush it off, but my stomach twists, hard and sour.
I didn’t even think about running. The option hadn’t even flickered in my brain until Isaiah shoved it under my nose.
And now the thought pulses there, hot and demanding, like a bruise I can’t stop pressing.
Why didn’t I think about escaping? What the fuck is wrong with me?
Am I really so tangled up in them—Isaiah’s devotion, Xavier’s power, Asher’s watchful calm—that I forgot freedom is still out there?
“I wasn’t planning on it,” I say, shaking my head as my fingers rake through the tangles of my blonde hair.
Isaiah catches my jaw between his fingers, tilting my face up.
His mouth brushes mine in a brief kiss—quick, but charged—leaving my lips tingling like the aftermath of an electric shock.
He doesn’t pull away completely, though.
His lips hover just above mine, his breath warm against my skin, a small, knowing smile curving at his mouth.
He whispers against my lips. “Good.”
I snatch the sweatpants from his hand and tug them on over his boxers, a grin tugging at my lips before I can stop it. Getting out of this room feels like a small victory. Getting out of the house feels like winning the Super Bowl.
I glance up at Asher. His steel grey eyes are fixed on me, unblinking, the weight of his stare enough to make me itch under my skin. I fight the urge to squirm, to twitch, and instead drag my tongue across my lips before looking away.
It lands on Zay. He’s crouched down, lacing up his black boots, muscles flexing under his Raiders muscle tee.
The wide-cut sides show off the ridges of his abs every time he moves, flashes of ink and skin teasing me like temptation carved in flesh.
He looks devastating, all easy strength and careless beauty.
And me? I look like a drowned oompa loompa, swallowed in his oversized clothes.
The thought makes me snort under my breath, but the heat rising in my cheeks doesn’t fade.
I tuck a stray strand of hair behind my ear and glance back at Asher.
His blond hair is pulled tight into a bun, sharp and severe, and the knitted polo is loose around his abs, but stretches across his biceps, leaving nothing to the imagination.
Baby blue jeans and white sneakers on his feet.
He looks like a sexy teacher sans the glasses.
Shit, maybe I can get him to put on glasses for me.
He folds his arms across his chest, the hem of his shirt rides up just enough to reveal a sliver of skin. My throat tightens, and I swallow hard before forcing myself to look away.
Asher takes a step forward, a devious glint sparking in his icy eyes. It’s subtle—just the faint curl of his mouth, the shift in his shoulders—but it makes my stomach flip.
“You find something funny?” His voice is low, controlled, carrying that sharp edge that makes every word feel like a challenge.
My lips part, but nothing comes out. The snort I let slip suddenly feels incriminating, like I’ve been caught red-handed. Heat crawls higher up my neck.
Before I can answer, Isaiah’s voice cuts in, smooth and unbothered. “She’s laughing at me, Ash. Don’t get your panties in a twist.” He straightens from tying his boot, flashing me a wicked grin that only makes it worse.
Asher doesn’t break his stare, stepping close enough that I can see the fine golden hairs at his temple, the sharp line of his jaw tightening. “I don’t think she was.”
My pulse jumps, the air crackling between the three of us—Isaiah smirking like he owns the room, Asher looming like a storm ready to break, and me caught in the middle, heart hammering against my ribs like it wants to escape.
I lick my lips, the simple motion dragging both of their eyes straight to my mouth. My breath stutters.
“I was laughing because I’m excited,” I blurt, shoving my hands deep into the pockets of my sweatpants. My fingers twist in the fabric as I shift on my toes, feigning nonchalance I don’t feel. “Go get me some shoes, Ash. We’re going shopping!”
Asher’s brow lifts, the corner of his mouth curving in something sharp. “Are you giving me orders?” His voice is low, dangerous, threaded with amusement.
Isaiah barks out a laugh, shaking his head as he tugs on his leather jacket. “Bossy little thing, isn’t she?”
Asher’s gaze flicks over me with a slow, hungry smirk that makes my skin flush hot all over again. “Little Toys shouldn’t give orders.”
I cross my arms, tilting my chin up. “Maybe I like giving orders.”
Isaiah whistles under his breath, clearly enjoying the show. “Careful, Angel. That’s not really Asher’s style.”
My stomach twists, heat crawling up my neck. Nervous laughter slips out before I can stop it. “Oh yeah? Then what is your style?”
His smirk deepens, eyes dragging over me with slow, unhurried intent.
“I have a lot of demands, Toy,” he murmurs, the nickname making my stomach drop.
I hate it, and yet the faint thread of endearment in his tone tangles with something I don’t want to name.
His voice drops lower, a husky whisper that curls against my skin.
“I like watching someone squirm… pushing them past the point they think they can go—then making them go further.”
A shiver bolts down my spine. I swallow hard, but force a crooked smile to my lips. “Fuck.”
“Damn, Asher, we don’t have enough time for you to rile her up without taking care of her,” Isaiah chuckles, looping his arm around my neck and tugging me back against his chest. His warmth seeps through the oversized shirt I’m drowning in, his breath brushing my temple.
Asher’s gaze sharpens, lips curving into something dangerously close to a smile. “I think she likes being riled up. Don’t you, Toy?”
My nostrils flare, pulse hammering. The word grates, but the way he says it has me caught between bristling and burning.
Isaiah laughs again, low and smug in my ear. “Damn Ash. You keep teasing her like that, and one of these days she’s going to bite.”
Asher tilts his head, eyes glittering. “You’re a biter?”
I show him my teeth, and Asher gives me a crooked smile. “You leave a mark. I leave a mark.”
I run my tongue slowly over my front teeth, trying to mask the heat pooling low in my body—the wetness slicking between my thighs—as I cock my head to the side and lean back against Isaiah’s chest. His arm tightens around me, possessive, but his grin says he’s savoring every second of this.
Asher only arches a brow, the ghost of a smile playing on his lips as though I’ve walked right into his trap. He turns away, unhurried, and crosses the room. My eyes follow the broad set of his shoulders, the effortless power in each step, until he crouches in the corner and picks something up.
When he straightens, he’s holding a pair of black boots—the same ones I wore the night everything fell apart. He carries them back with the quiet certainty of someone who knows he’ll be obeyed.
His gaze locks on mine as he sets them down at his feet. “Sit.”
My pulse stutters, heat flashing through me at the simple command. Part of me wants to snap back, to resist, to claw at the power hanging in the air. But another part of me—shaken, burning—wants to see what happens if I do as I’m told.
Isaiah whistles low, his chest vibrating against my back as his fingers curl around a strand of my hair, twirling it lazily. “You better listen, Angel.” His tone is teasing, but there’s an edge of hunger beneath it.
I choose to do as I am told. I swallow hard, then push away from the safety of Isaiah’s chest. My feet carry me forward almost against my will, each step deliberate, defiant. I lower myself onto the edge of the bed, the leather of the boots gleaming black at Asher’s feet.
His eyes never leave mine. He doesn’t crouch immediately, doesn’t rush—he just lets the silence stretch, icy and suffocating, until I can feel my heartbeat thudding in my throat. Finally, Asher kneels, one hand curling around my ankle.
The heat of his palm sears through the thin fabric of Isaiah’s sweatpants as he slides the boot over my foot, lacing it with steady, unhurried precision.
It’s a simple action, mundane even, but the way he does it—the quiet focus, the ownership in the way his fingers graze my skin—turns it into something charged, something that steals the air from my lungs.
He ties the final knot and looks up at me, his face level with my knees, eyes sharp enough to cut. “I followed an order, so now you need to follow my orders.”
“Orders?” I cough.
“Orders.” He repeats with certainty.
Heat floods my face, my chest tight, my hands clenching in the hem of Isaiah’s shirt I’m drowning in. I want to bite back, to claw at the smug certainty in Asher’s tone—but I don’t. I can’t.
Asher slips his hands into his pockets, breaking the moment with a smirk that’s both infuriating and devastatingly calm. “Now,” he says, his voice smooth and final. “Let’s go shopping.”