Page 24 of They All Own Me

Chapter 14

Isaac

Left jab.Right hook. My fists connect with the heavy bag in rapid succession, each impact sending vibrations up my arms. Sweat drips down my tattooed scalp as I dance around the bag, unleashing combinations that would drop most men.

"Fucking Thomas Cope," I mutter between strikes. The bag swings wildly as I land a particularly vicious body shot. "Entitled piece of shit."

The gym's empty at the moment, just me and my thoughts. The rhythmic thud of my punches echoes off the concrete walls. My mind drifts to his wife Tatum, trapped in that gilded cage he calls a marriage.

Another combination lands. Left-right-left. The chain holding the bag creaks in protest.

"Using women like they're property." My accent thickens with anger as I circle the bag. "Just like her father, selling her off at seventeen."

The more I think about it, the harder I hit. My wrapped knuckles sting, but I keep going. Men like him make me sick – born with silver spoons, thinking they own everything and everyone around them.

"Should've broken his jaw that night when I had the fucking chance."

I throw an elbow strike that rocks the bag on its chain. My breathing's heavy now, muscles burning from the extended session. But the anger's still there, simmering beneath the surface.

I grab the bag to steady it, pressing my forehead against the cool leather. We deal with scumbags all the time in this line of work, but something about Thomas sets me off. Maybe it's seeing Tatum play the perfect politician's wife while he treats her like dirt.

"Bet he's never thrown a real punch in his life," I say to the empty gym, resuming my assault on the bag. "Wouldn't last five minutes in here."

Connor’s voice suddenly crackles through the intercom. “Isaac, Dom, security room, now.”

I grab my towel from the bench, dabbing at the sweat running down my neck and face. My muscles burn from the workout, but it's a good kind of pain. The kind that keeps me focused.

"This better be important," I mutter, unwrapping the tape from my hands. The fabric's damp and worn, bearing the marks of my frustration with Thomas Cope.

The heavy metal door creaks as I push it open, stepping into the fluorescent-lit hallway. My boots echo against the concrete floor as I make my way toward the security room. The air conditioning hits my overheated skin, raising goosebumps along my arms.

Dominic appears in the hallway, his eyes narrowed. “What the hell's the rush? He already confirmed she's live.”

“No idea.”

I undo my gloves, tucking them under my arm as I walk. The leather's worn smooth from years of use, molded perfectly to myhands. The security room's at the end of the hall, its door slightly ajar, spilling harsh blue light into the corridor.

The familiar scent of Connor's coffee and the hum of electronics greets me as I approach.

He waves us in urgently.

“Check this out,” he says, his tone a mix of awe and something else I can’t quite place. "She did it, and she did it big."

“Did what big?” Dominic snaps.

“Planted the camera and mic.”

We crowd around the monitors. There she is—Tatum—on the screen in a scantily clad ensemble that makes my blood pressure spike. She’s confident, precise in her movements as she adjusts something on Thomas’s desk.

“God damn,” Dominic mutters, rubbing his temples. “Didn’t expect her to get so… creative… but I don't mind it one bit.”

I lean closer to the screen, my eyes glued to Tatum. “Fuck, she looks… thorough.”

Connor smirks but keeps his focus on the monitor. “Thorough isn’t the word I’d use, but yeah.”

Senator Dickhead doesn't look too enthused. He jumps out of his chair, and stands up, arms crossed, eyes narrowed as Tatum hops off the desk. The way she’s moving, it’s clear she’s doing more than just straightening up.

"Something's off," I say, leaning closer to the screen. "Turn on the mic, Connor."

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