Chapter 4
ISABEL
Isabel’s mind replayed the way Victoria had stitched her up. The sting of antiseptic hit first, sharp and cold against Isabel’s skin. She hissed through her teeth, fingers tightening on the edge of Victoria’s desk, but the burn wasn’t nearly as distracting as the hands applying it.
Victoria Langley’s hands were soft.
That was the first thing Isabel had noticed. Precise, careful, the kind of touch that spoke of practiced skill—not just muscle memory, but intention. It didn’t fit the woman she’d been sparring with since her first day at the precinct.
Victoria snapped orders like whip cracks, moved through the world with a rigid, no-nonsense efficiency. Everything about her screamed control.
But her hands?
Her hands were steady in a way that felt…personal. The tips of her fingers had brushed against Isabel’s bare skin as she worked, featherlight and deliberate, like she was trying not to cause more pain than necessary.
Isabel had hated how much she liked it. Or maybe she didn’t hate it at all.
She glanced up, watching Victoria’s face—impassive, focused, jaw tight.
Her blonde hair was pulled back in that perfect no-nonsense bun, not a strand out of place.
The soft glow from the desk lamp caught the faint silver threading through her temples, a quiet reminder that Victoria was older. Wiser.
Dangerous.
The attraction had been there from day one. That was easy. Shallow. A knee-jerk reaction to competence wrapped in crisp suits and cold authority.
But this?
This was something else.
It wasn’t just the way Victoria had touched her—it was the way she’d looked at her. Assessing. Measuring. As if she was deciding whether Isabel was worth the effort of caring.
And the fact that she’d stitched Isabel up herself instead of pawning her off on the medics spoke volumes.
Shit.
Isabel swallowed hard, forcing a crooked grin onto her face. “You’re awfully gentle for someone who probably learned this in a war zone.”
Victoria’s hands didn’t pause. “I’ve patched up worse.”
I’ll bet you have, Isabel thought, studying the sharp lines of her face, the way tension seemed baked into her posture, as if she’d forgotten how to relax.
“You ever think about quitting?” Isabel had asked, voice softer now. “Doing something less…” She’d gestured vaguely with her free hand. “Life-threatening?”
Victoria’s gaze had flicked up, cool and unreadable. “No.”
“Not even once?”
“No.”
Isabel had hummed. “So you’re one of those ‘the job is my life’ people.”
Victoria gave her a look. “And you’re not?”
“Touché.”
Isabel had wished she had a better retort, but she couldn’t think straight. She was too busy noticing the way Victoria’s thumb had brushed against the inside of her arm, steadying her skin for the next stitch.
That warmth, that softness—it was undoing her.
The attraction wasn’t just physical anymore. It was deeper, messier. She didn’t just want to get Victoria naked—though, God, the thought was driving her near insane.
She wanted to know what Victoria sounded like when she laughed. If she laughed.
She wanted to know what she looked like when the weight of the job wasn’t crushing her shoulders.
She wanted—
Fuck.
She was in so much trouble.
Victoria had tied off the last stitch and sat back. “Done.”
Isabel had flexed her arm, testing the range of motion. It ached, but the pain was manageable. “Not bad, Captain. Didn’t even cry.”
Victoria arched a brow. “I told you.” Victoria rolled her eyes, but there was the barest twitch of a smile at the corner of her mouth.
And Isabel? Isabel wanted to kiss her.
Not just to win. Not just for the thrill of it.
She wanted to kiss her because Victoria had earned it.
Because she was sharp and steady and maddeningly competent.
And because Isabel was tired of pretending this was just about the chase.
The realization hit hard, knocking the breath from her lungs.
Hiding shock ringing through her body at that realization, Isabel smirked.
“You did. And I so love when you’re right.” Isabel had watched Victoria closely as she turned her head closely, seeing Victoria’s nostrils flare slightly before responding.
“You need rest.”
“Oh, come on,” Isabel had groaned. “You patch me up just to put me on a time-out?”
She would be damned if she was taken off this case. She was too invested in the Harper kidnapping. And if she was being honest, she was too invested in spending time with the stunning woman standing in front of her.
“You were shot,” Victoria had pointed out. “You need sleep.”
Isabel rolled her shoulder. “Nah. I’ll be fine.”
Victoria sighed, standing. “Then at least eat something.”
Do something, her brain had urged. Now. Before you chicken out.
“Dinner,” Isabel blurted. She tilted her head towards the door. “Lavender’s. It’s not far, the food’s good, and you can make sure I don’t pass out at the table.” She’d smirked. “Very responsible of you.”
Victoria stared at Isabel silently. Her face was unreadable, a poker face made for Vegas. The moment stretched, making Isabel’s heart pound as she waited for a response.
“That’s not necessary.”
She wasn’t giving up that easily. Isabel raised a brow. “So you’d rather I don’t eat?”
Victoria hadn’t answered right away but just stared at her, blue eyes sharp and considering. Eventually, Victoria had pinched the bridge of her nose. Isabel hoped that was a sign her will was wavering.
Isabel had grinned, standing. “Come on, Langley. It’s just dinner. You and me, no precinct, no case talk—just two people eating food. Surely even you take breaks.”
Victoria’s lips pressed into a thin line. This is it, Isabel had realized. This is the moment.
If Victoria said no, Isabel would let it drop. She’d shove the feelings down, pretend they didn’t exist, chalk it up to adrenaline and too many close calls.
But if she said yes…
Victoria sighed, running a hand through her hair. “Fine.”
Fuck.
That shouldn’t have hit as hard as it had. Isabel grinned, trying to cover the sudden spike of heat in her chest. Hook, line, and sinker.
“Damn. Wasn’t expecting that to work.”
Victoria grabbed her blazer and shot her a look so flat it could’ve smoothed wrinkles. “Let’s get this over with.”
“Oh, Captain. You’re gonna have fun. I promise.”
Victoria didn’t dignify that with a response.
But as Isabel grabbed her ruined leather jacket—carefully, because damn it, this jacket had been with her through everything—she couldn’t help the smile tugging at her lips.
She’d gotten what she wanted. And for once, it wasn’t just about the thrill of the chase.
It was about seeing Victoria—really seeing her—and knowing, without a doubt, that she wanted more. Much more.
The warm glow of string lights spilled out from the windows of Lavender’s, casting soft golden puddles across the cracked sidewalk. Isabel hesitated for a moment, her hands shoved in her jacket pockets, eyeing the cozy cafe bar is if it might suddenly disappear.
She’d only been here once—her first night in town, when exhaustion and bad takeout options had driven her through the front door. It had been late, the crowd thinning out, and she’d ended up nursing a lavender gin spritz at the bar while the resident dog, Fig, snored under her stool.
The place had stuck in her mind ever since. Mismatched furniture, faded rugs, and walls cluttered with local art gave it an easy, lived-in charm. The air always smelled faintly of lavender and warm bread, as if someone had bottled comfort and turned it into a business model.
It wasn’t the kind of place she’d expected to find herself again—especially not with Victoria Langley.
What the hell did I just get her to agree to?
The thought made her grin as she pushed open the door, the little brass bell above it giving a cheerful jingle.
Lavender Larwood herself stood behind the counter, scribbling into a battered notebook with one hand while flipping a clean dish towel over her shoulder with the other.
She was effortlessly cool, the kind of middle-aged woman who probably knew every customer by name and had stories to tell about half of them.
Silver streaks ran through her hair, which was piled into a messy bun, and a faded tattoo peeked out from under her rolled-up sleeves.
Lavender glanced up, her eyes flicking over Isabel before recognition dawned. “Well, look who’s back. Didn’t think I’d see you again so soon.”
Isabel smirked, sauntering toward the counter. “What can I say? The bread was good.”
“The bread,” Lavender echoed, deadpan. “Not the gin spritz you ordered twice?”
“Don’t start,” Isabel muttered, but the corner of her mouth twitched.
“Fig’s in his usual spot,” Lavender added, nodding toward the corner where the scruffy mutt was sprawled on his side, belly up to the world. His tail thumped lazily against the floor as if to acknowledge her presence before settling back into sleep.
Before Isabel could reply, the bell above the door jingled again.
Victoria Langley stepped inside, looking every inch the polished captain she always did—dark blouse, tailored slacks, hair pulled back into that ruthlessly neat bun.
But what threw Isabel wasn’t the contrast between Victoria and the bohemian charm of the cafe.
It was the way Lavender’s face lit up.
“Well, damn,” Lavender said, tossing the dish towel onto the counter. “Tori?”
Victoria’s lips curved into something almost like a smile. Not the tight, polite expression Isabel had seen her give officers at the precinct, but something easier. Familiar.
“Lav,” Victoria drawled, striding toward the counter like she’d done it a hundred times before.
Isabel blinked. Excuse me?
“Okay, hold up,” Isabel said, glancing between them. “You two know each other?”
Lavender chuckled, coming around the counter to clap Victoria on the shoulder. “Know her? This one’s been darkening my doorway for years. Thought everyone in the department knew that.”