Chapter 8
ISABEL
Isabel had rolled over in the early morning light to find only the rumpled dent in the pillow where Victoria had been.
No note on the nightstand, no quiet word before slipping out — not that she’d expected tenderness, but still.
It had been a night worth remembering, worth something.
She’d thought she’d gotten under that perfect armor, that for once Victoria had trusted her enough to let someone in.
Apparently not.
After they’d decided who was going, she didn’t wait for more — just turned and walked out, not trusting herself to keep her face straight any longer.
At her desk, Isabel logged into the precinct database and typed Iron Fang Syndicate into the search bar.
The screen flooded with results — neatly categorized files, mugshots with blank eyes, lists of known operations, suspected fronts, shipping manifests tied to shell companies.
She scrolled with quick, practiced efficiency, scanning for anything she could use to pry open the woman they had in custody.
Her eyes moved fast. Her mind didn’t.
With every click, her anger rose. Not at the syndicate — though God knew they deserved it — but at her. At Victoria. At the way the captain had looked at her this morning as if last night had been an afterthought, like it hadn’t happened at all.
Isabel clenched her jaw. She knew the truth — anger was just the shield she pulled up to keep the real thing from gutting her.
Beneath it, sadness pooled heavy and gray, dragging at her ribs.
Even the colors on her desk — the red precinct memo pinned to her monitor, the bright yellow of Collins’ coffee mug on the next desk — seemed duller somehow.
For one night, she’d thought she’d made Victoria feel.
She could still feel the ache in her hands from gripping those sharp hips, the delicious tension in the captain’s body when Isabel had tightened her hand at her throat.
She’d loved watching that icy control melt away under her touch, loved the sound of the sighs Victoria tried to swallow.
She’d felt like she was guiding something rare and precious — that the other woman had trusted her to take control, to give pleasure, to push her exactly where she needed to go.
It had been intoxicating.
And it wasn’t just about the sex. It was about trust.
Her fingers hovered over the trackpad, frozen mid-scroll, as her thoughts slipped backward to a different precinct, a different desk.
Her last job — the case that ended it. She’d known something was off with Carson months before anyone else would even listen.
A string of evidence room withdrawals that didn’t match the logs.
Drugs seized on raids disappearing without explanation.
She’d brought it up to her sergeant twice, both times getting the same tight smile and dismissive pat on the shoulder.
So, she’d called Internal Affairs herself.
The fallout had been fast and brutal. Carson was one of the department’s favorites — all charm and good arrest numbers — and suddenly Isabel was the one under suspicion.
They put her on administrative leave “pending review.” A whole month with no pay, waiting while they combed through her cases for something they could pin back on her.
She remembered the hollow feeling in her stomach every time she checked her email for news. The way she’d stopped going out with the rest of the team after shifts, because she couldn’t stand the looks — the suspicion in people’s eyes, the way their voices dropped when she walked past.
When IA finally confirmed she’d been right — Carson had been skimming drugs and selling them through a cousin — she thought maybe she’d get her place back.
She’d imagined the relief in her colleagues’ faces, the respect in their voices.
Instead, she got a new nickname whispered behind her back. Narc.
She wasn’t the favorite detective anymore. She was the one you didn’t tell things to. The one you watched your words around.
So, she’d left. Packed up and moved to Phoenix Ridge for a clean start.
And now, she thought bitterly, she was managing to fuck this up, too.
She’d had something with Victoria — or at least she thought she had. Last night had felt like a shift, a crack in that perfect armor. The look in Victoria’s eyes when Isabel took control had felt like an invitation into a place no one else had been allowed.
And this morning, it was gone.
She dragged her eyes back to the files, forcing herself to skim another page, but her concentration was gone.
The words and photos blurred into meaningless lines.
The memory of Victoria’s sigh — that soft, unguarded sound — was louder than the hum of the precinct’s HVAC.
The thought of her skin under Isabel’s palms, warm and tense and yielding all at once, made her pulse kick against her throat.
She wanted to believe last night had meant something. But Victoria’s cool detachment told her otherwise.
A spike of noise in the bullpen snapped her head up. Voices raised, the squeak of gurney wheels on tile. The suspect had arrived.
Isabel pushed back from the desk hard enough that her chair rolled a foot. She slapped her own cheek once, the sting snapping her focus.
Get over it, Torres. One more loss. One more person you thought you knew.
She straightened her jacket, smoothed the front with sharp, deliberate movements, and strode toward the interrogation wing.
They reached the interrogation room door at the exact same time.
Victoria’s hand moved for the handle just as Isabel’s fingers closed around it. Their knuckles brushed — a light contact, but it may as well have been a live wire.
Neither pulled back.
They stood so close Isabel could smell the faint trace of Victoria’s perfume under the sharper scent of coffee and the clean starch of her shirt. The air between them felt charged, the kind of static that made the tiny hairs at the nape of Isabel’s neck stand on end.
Their eyes locked. Blue against brown.
It was too much — too much history in less than twenty-four hours, too much that neither of them would say aloud. The silence stretched until it felt like a third presence between them, breathing with them, waiting for someone to break.
Victoria’s gaze was cool, steady, unreadable. Isabel’s fingers tightened on the handle, a silent dare.
She wanted to be the one to open the door, to take the lead for once. To prove that last night hadn’t been a fluke, that she wasn’t just someone who was allowed in for a single night before being shut out completely.
But Victoria didn’t budge. She didn’t yield an inch.
The moment turned into a standoff — not loud or dramatic, but one of those quiet, high-pressure points where neither side wants to give in first.
Finally, Isabel let go. The withdrawal felt sharper than she expected.
She took half a step back, lips quirking into something that hovered between a smirk and a grimace. “After you.”
Victoria didn’t thank her. Didn’t acknowledge it at all. She just pushed the door open and walked in, her posture crisp, her stride measured — as if Isabel’s small concession had been inevitable.
And maybe it had.
Isabel followed a few paces behind, the disappointment settling low in her chest. Every step into that room was another reminder: Victoria would always take control. Always keep that distance. Always keep the temperature just cold enough to keep Isabel’s hands off the flame.
It made Isabel want to break that control even more.
The gunner sat cuffed to the table, her wrists chained to the bolted ring in the middle. Her hair was limp, her face pale from blood loss and whatever painkillers the hospital had pumped into her system. But her eyes were alert — hard.
Victoria took the seat directly across from her, her posture perfect, her hands neatly folded on the table. Isabel stayed standing, leaning against the wall to the suspect’s left, watching.
“You were at the warehouse,” Victoria began, her voice cool and deliberate. “You fired at officers. Now you’re going to tell me why.”
The woman’s chin tipped up. “Lawyer.”
Victoria’s expression didn’t change. “Of course. You’re entitled to one. In fact, I just had a court-appointed attorney called for you.” She let that hang for a second. “But it could be a few hours before she gets here. And you don’t have to talk without her present. That’s your right.”
She leaned forward slightly, her voice dropping. Hardening. “But I will.”
The woman blinked, uncertain.
Victoria’s hands unfolded. She set them on the table, palms down as if pinning the suspect in place.
“Let me tell you how this is going to go. When that attorney gets here, she’s going to tell you not to say a word.
And then you’ll sit in a holding cell until we have enough to charge you — which we already do.
And when we do, it won’t just be for attempted murder of a police officer. ”
Her eyes locked on the woman’s. “It’ll be for your ties to the Iron Fang Syndicate.
For every weapon, every shipment, every extortion we can link to your name.
And trust me, there’s a lot. We’ve been building cases for years.
I can bury you so deep in charges, you’ll forget what sunlight looks like. ”
The suspect shifted in her chair, the first crack in her mask.
Victoria didn’t stop. “And you know what the worst part is? You’re a small fish. Which means when your friends find out you talked to us, they’ll write you off as disposable. And when they think you’re a liability? They won’t send flowers.”
She leaned back slightly, and that’s when she said it. “You were in that warehouse when Detective Torres was shot.” Her gaze sharpened. “You’re lucky she’s alive. Because if she wasn’t, we’d be having a very different conversation.”
Isabel’s heart gave a hard, unexpected thud. Hearing her own name in Victoria’s voice — low, edged with steel — sent a rush through her that she didn’t want to think too hard about.