Chapter 7 #2
By the end of mile one, the wall was shaky but standing.
Her breathing had evened out. Her legs were warm, her stride easy.
She could almost believe last night was just a slip — a brief lapse in judgment.
She could tuck it away with all the other mistakes she’d made in her personal life, never to be spoken of again.
Then a gust of wind funneled between two buildings, catching her off guard.
The streetlamp’s light shifted over the pavement in a pattern that reminded her of the blinds in Isabel’s bedroom, and just like that, the wall cracked.
She saw bronze skin in fractured light, the rise and fall of Isabel’s back as she slept.
She remembered how it had felt to wake up beside her — terrifying, raw, intoxicating.
She gritted her teeth and pushed into mile two.
Here, the streets widened, opening toward the cliffside road.
On her left, the ocean unfurled under the first suggestion of dawn — not yet gold, but deep blue and silver, the horizon smudged like charcoal.
The guardrails glinted faintly, slick with sea spray.
The air was sharper here, cleaner, with an undercurrent of diesel from the occasional fishing boat making its way back to harbor.
Mile two was about discipline. This was where she usually locked in, let the rhythm carry her. She imagined mortar setting between the bricks, sealing the cracks. She repeated silent commands in her head: Focus. Control. Detach.
But then her mind betrayed her. Isabel’s laugh — that unrestrained, warm burst of sound — played over the rush of the wind. The phantom weight of Isabel’s thigh pressing between hers made her stumble for half a step.
Her pace faltered, and with it, the wall crumbled again.
By the time she hit the usual turnaround point, her routine was ruined. She stopped for a fraction of a second, her chest rising and falling as she stared down the stretch of road that would take her home. She could go back, shower, and lock it down before work.
Instead, she turned in the opposite direction and pushed forward.
She knew exactly what she was doing — this wasn’t about training anymore. This was punishment.
Her father’s voice, still sharp in her memory after all these years, rang through her head.
If you’ve got enough breath to think about quitting, Langley, you’ve got enough breath to keep running.
She’d been twelve when he’d first dragged her out of bed at dawn, made her run until her lungs burned and her legs trembled.
The rules were simple: you didn’t stop until you’d earned the right to stop.
And she hadn’t earned it yet.
So, she kept going, every muscle in her legs tightening as she drove herself up the incline toward the old lighthouse loop — two extra miles of rolling hills and ocean wind that cut through even the warmest morning.
Her calves screamed on the uphill stretch; her quads burned on the downhill.
She welcomed it. Pain was clean. Simple.
It left no room for thoughts of Isabel’s mouth, Isabel’s fingers, Isabel’s voice calling her good girl in that low, ruinous tone.
The extra loop should have done it — should have beaten the memories out of her body the way her father’s drills had once burned hesitation out of her.
But as she crested the final hill, her lungs pulling at the air like they couldn’t get enough, Isabel was still there.
She was in the press of Victoria’s sports bra against her skin, the way the straps dug into her shoulders, the way the sweat slid down the back of her neck.
She was in the tight, desperate ache between her legs that had nothing to do with the run.
By the time Victoria turned back toward home, her anger was simmering — not at Isabel, but at herself. At her own lack of control.
She finished the loop with her teeth clenched, her legs churning in a last, punishing burst of speed.
The townhouse was still and silent when she slipped inside, the air cool against her overheated skin. She dropped her keys into the dish by the door and peeled off her damp shirt as she walked toward the bathroom, leaving it in a crumpled heap in the hall — something she never did.
The shower knobs turned with a squeak, and she twisted the hot tap all the way until steam filled the glass stall. She stepped under the spray before it was ready, the water still edging toward scalding, and pressed her palms flat to the cool tile as the heat climbed.
It should have burned the thoughts away.
That was the point — to drown her senses in heat, make it impossible to think about anything else.
But the water cascading over her skin only made her remember Isabel’s hands — one at her throat, the other between her thighs — and the way Victoria had let her head fall back and given herself over entirely.
Her breathing hitched, uneven in the steam.
She told herself to stop. To focus. But her hands betrayed her, sliding down over her stomach, lower, until her fingertips found the heat pooling there. The smallest touch sent a shiver through her.
She closed her eyes and let herself remember.
Isabel’s palm warm against her skin.
The scrape of her nails.
The precise pressure on her throat that made her whole body light up.
Victoria’s hips shifted under the spray, her breath catching as she circled her fingers exactly where she wanted them. She bit down on a groan, the sound swallowed by the hiss of water. Her forehead rested against the tile now, her other hand braced above her head.
She tried to keep her movements clinical, efficient — just a release, nothing more — but her mind wouldn’t cooperate. Isabel was there in every detail—the taste of her mouth, the way she’d looked at Victoria as if she could see every hidden part of her and still wanted more.
Her pace quickened, the tension curling tighter and tighter until it snapped. The orgasm shuddered through her in waves, stealing her breath, making her knees tremble.
When it was over, she stayed there, hunched under the spray, her hand still between her thighs. She told herself it was the same. It was enough. It didn’t have to be anything more.
But the truth was immediate and unrelenting.
It wasn’t the same.
It wasn’t even close.
And admitting that — even silently — was unbearable.
She straightened, drew in a long, steadying breath, and reached for the cold tap.
The shift was instant and brutal, the water slamming into her skin with a shock that stole the air from her lungs.
She welcomed it, let it chase the heat from her body, let it numb the places Isabel’s touch had burned into her.
When she stepped out, water still dripping from her hair, she wrapped the towel tightly around herself and told her reflection in the mirror that she was fine. That the calm, cool, and collected captain was back.
But her hands were still trembling. And she knew her control was paper-thin.
The precinct smelled of burnt coffee and floor polish — a scent Victoria usually found grounding. This morning, it was a reminder of where she belonged, of the place where her control was absolute.
She sat at her desk, the blinds angled to keep the rising sun from glaring across her computer screen.
Her coffee was hot, dark, and strong, the ceramic mug warm in her hands.
She took slow sips, feeling the last of the morning run’s adrenaline settle into something steadier.
Her hair was still slightly damp from the shower, pulled back into a tight bun.
The cool weight of her badge on her belt was reassuring.
She’d rebuilt herself brick by brick since leaving Isabel’s apartment. The run had been punishing, the shower hotter still, and now the armor was back on. She could feel it — spine straight, face composed, mind clear.
At least, it was until her cursor hovered over the audio file on her desktop.
Ransom_Call_01.mp3
The file name was neat and impersonal. The reality wasn’t.
This, according to Lily Harper, was the first ransom call she’d received.
But Victoria had been doing this long enough to know when someone was lying by omission.
Lily had looked too composed when she’d handed over the USB drive.
There’d been no tremor in her voice, no fumbling in her explanation.
And she’d made sure to be the one to provide the file instead of forwarding a direct recording.
Victoria’s gut told her this wasn’t the first contact.
She clicked play.
A burst of static, then a voice — male, distorted, the timbre flattened by a filter that made it impossible to guess age or accent.
“One chance. Five million. Cryptocurrency. Instructions to follow.”
The words were clipped, deliberate. No threats. No names.
But there was something underneath — a faint hum, almost like an air conditioner cycling. And… was that…? She leaned forward, elbows on the desk, closing her eyes to listen. There — a hollow metallic clang, so faint she had to turn the volume up until the distortion hissed in her ears.
She was halfway through replaying it when her office door opened without a knock.
“Morning, Cap.”
Collins stood in the doorway, a file folder tucked under one arm, her other hand holding her own mug. She stepped inside without waiting for permission, setting the folder on the desk.
“Prelim from tech on the audio. Nothing groundbreaking — the distortion’s layered, so no voice match possible. And Lily swears up and down it’s the first she’s gotten.”
Victoria’s mouth tightened. “She’s lying.”
Collins nodded, unsurprised. “Figured you’d say that. Anything jump out to you?”
Victoria tapped the space bar to pause the playback. “Background noise. Could be HVAC in an old building, could be industrial fans. There’s a clang — maybe metal on metal. And something about his pacing…”
The bullpen door opened again, and Isabel stepped in.