“Stone!” Hawk’s voice, urgent. “Brick just called in. Something’s going down at that house. Sounds bad—he’s requesting a clean up crew.”
Stone’s forehead drops to my shoulder. I feel the groan vibrate through his entire body.
“I’m going to kill him,” he mutters.
“What house?” I ask, my brain still foggy. “What’s going on?”
Stone pulls back, and I watch the president slide into place, locking down everything we’ve just shared. “Isabel. She must have slipped out. Brick followed her.”
Isabel.
The fog clears instantly, replaced by a cold spike of fear. Whatever she was running back to—whoever she was so desperate to reach—it’s caught up with her.
I’m already pushing myself upright, ignoring the scream of my ribs. “I’m coming with?—”
“No.” Stone’s hand presses me back down, firm but gentle. “You can barely walk. You’d be a liability.”
He’s right. I hate that he’s right.
“Then bring her back safe.” I grip his wrist. “Whatever’s happening—she’s not the enemy, Stone. She’s a victim. Promise me you’ll remember that.”
His jaw tightens, but he nods. “I promise.”
“Stone—”
“I’ll be back.” He presses a hard, fast kiss to my mouth. “And when I am, we’re finishing this conversation.”
I relax. “Conversation? Is that what we’re calling it?”
He’s already moving toward the door, but he pauses with his hand on the knob, looking back at me with an expression that makes my stomach flip. “Next time, I’m locking the door and ignoring them. I don’t care if the goddamned house is burning down around us.”
“Promise?”
“Promise.”
Then he’s gone, and I’m left staring at the ceiling, heart racing, lips tingling, torn between the ghost of his kiss and the fear gnawing at my chest.
Be safe, Isabel.
9
BRICK
The girl is going to be a problem.
I knew it from the second Stone showed me her picture—all sharp cheekbones and wary eyes. She’s the kind of pretty that comes with complications.
I’m parked three houses down from a shithole on the west side of Stoneheart, watching that same girl walk into what I’m pretty sure is going to be a disaster.
She moved fast once she hit the ground outside that bathroom window—faster than I expected. Cutting through yards, doubling back, taking routes that say she’s done this before. I almost lost her twice, and I don’t lose people.
Who are you, Isabel? And what the hell is in that house?
I drum my fingers on the steering wheel of the club sedan. As much as I hate being in a cage—it’s far less conspicuous than the loud rumble of my bike.
The place looks abandoned. Peeling paint, sagging porch, lawn that hasn’t seen a mower since the Clinton administration. The kind of house where bad things happen and nobody asks questions.
Isabel circled around to the back, checked the windows, then slipped inside like a ghost.
