Page 21 of Taking What's Mine

“Don’t,” I cut in gently, stepping back half a pace. If she finishes that sentence, I might do something I can’t take back. “It was part of the cover, right?” The words taste bitter, even as I say them.

Her expression falters. “Right. Part of the cover.” She forces a short laugh that doesn’t reach her eyes. “That’s all.”

We stand in loaded silence, the unspoken tension swirling between us. I can see the flicker of disappointment on her face, and it kills me more than I care to admit. I want to bridge that distance, cup her cheek, tell her it wasn’t just an act for me. But that’s not fair—to her, to Dean, or to the mission.

I clear my throat. “We should probably get some rest. Tomorrow we can figure out our next move. Maybe reach out to Devereaux again, or wait for him to contact us.”

“Yeah,” she agrees, voice soft. “Sleep sounds good.” She hesitates, then turns toward the door. Before she leaves, she glances over her shoulder. “Night, Lincoln.”

“Night,” I echo, my voice husky with everything I’m not saying.

When the door clicks shut behind her, I stand there, staring at the worn wood grain, a thousand conflicting emotions tearing me apart. If it were anyone else—any other case—I wouldn’t let it get this personal. But Isabel isn’t just anyone. She’s strong, clever, and heartbreakingly beautiful in a way that breaks down all my defenses. And because of that, I’m lying to Dean, risking my career, and flirting with the possibility of something that could blow up in both our faces.

I rake a hand through my hair and let out a shaky breath. The tension in my body is coiled, like a tight spring ready to snap. Part of me is tempted to knock on her door, start a conversation we can’t finish. But I know better. If we cross that line, there’s no going back. And I still have a job to do—protect her at all costs, figure out who’s threatening her, and stop them before it’s too late.

I flip off the lamp, plunging the room into darkness. My eyes adjust slowly, the shadows of the furniture turning to muted silhouettes. I kick off my shoes and peel away the rest of my clothes, muscles aching from the tension of the night. The sheets are cool when I slip between them, and I stare at the ceiling, trying to force my mind to slow down.

But I can’t stop thinking about how she pressed against me at the club, how she looked up at me with those wide, gray eyes. I can’t stop replaying the way she said my name—like she meant more than just “Lincoln, the bodyguard.” I shift, shutting my eyes tight. No, I can’t go there. Not when there’s so much at stake.

For a long time, I lie awake, listening to the hush of the air conditioning kicking on and off, the faint creaks of an old house settling in the night. It’s almost worse than the pounding music at Club Greed—at least there, the noise distracted me. Here, in the silent dark, I have no choice but to face the truth. I’m in deeper than I should be, and we still don’t have concrete answers about who’s after Isabel.

Eventually, exhaustion tugs me under, my mind drifting in a restless haze of neon lights, the swirl of her dress, and the taste of whiskey on my tongue. And just before I slip into real sleep, the final, traitorous thought that filters through is how right it felt, holding her in my arms, even if it was just pretend.

Chapter 10

Isabel

I wake up to the gray light of dawn, though calling it “waking up” might be a stretch. It’s more like I give up on any hope of rest and finally roll out of bed. My body aches from tossing and turning all night, and I can’t shake the vivid images of Lincoln that invaded every fitful dream. It’s frustrating. Part of me wants to blame him for my insomnia, but the truth is I can’t blame anyone. Not when the real problem is that I can’t stop thinking about the way he held me at that club, the look in his eyes when we danced, and the possibility that all of it might’ve felt too real.

With a sigh, I slip out from under the covers and tug on a pair of cotton shorts and a tank top. The safe house is quiet, except for the faint hum of the HVAC system. I glance at the clock on my nightstand—6:47 a.m. I guess that qualifies as morning. Might as well get some coffee and try to salvage this day.

When I open my door, the hallway is dim. I pad across the floor on bare feet, heading toward the living room. The house feels too still, that post-night hush lingering like a ghost. As I round the corner, I’m expecting an empty couch and maybe a quiet kitchen. Instead, my heart nearly leaps out of my chest at the sight before me.

Lincoln is in the living room—shirtless—doing push-ups, his broad back rippling with every controlled movement. His arms flex beneath his weight, biceps and triceps bunching. A thin sheen of sweat glistens on his skin, accentuating the lines of muscle on his shoulders. He’s wearing a pair of dark athletic pants, hanging low on his hips, and each time he dips down, I catch a glimpse of his abs tightening. I clamp a hand over my mouth to stifle a startled gasp, but I doubt he’s heard me over the sound of his own breathing.

I stand frozen, not sure whether to tiptoe back to my room and pretend I didn’t see anything or to clear my throat and announce my presence. Maybe I should be used to this by now—Lincoln, the big, strong soldier type, working out at insane hours. But I’m definitely not prepared for the actual sight of him in motion. It’s… mesmerizing. A flush creeps into my cheeks, and I realize I’m practically ogling him like some swooning teenager.

The embarrassment pushes me to move. I open my mouth, trying to say something, anything—maybe “Morning” or “Uh, hi, I’m here”—but the words die on my tongue. He lowers himself again, forearms bulging, and a wave of yearning washes over me as I remember how those arms felt around me last night. Suddenly, I’m not sure I can speak without my voice cracking.

My feet shuffle on the hardwood, and Lincoln’s head snaps up. He stops mid-push-up, holding himself aloft with jaw-droppingstability, and looks right at me. For a second, neither of us speaks. My heart pounds too loudly in my ears.

Finally, he exhales, easing down to the floor and pushing up to his knees. “Morning,” he says, voice a little winded from the workout. But even in that single syllable, I hear the same deep timbre that played in my dreams all night.

I force myself to breathe. “Morning,” I manage, folding my arms to keep from fidgeting. “I, uh… didn’t realize you were up.”

He scrubs a hand over his face, then reaches for a small towel lying on the couch to blot away the sweat at his hairline. “Got an early start. Couldn’t sleep.”

I exhale a shaky laugh, stepping more fully into the living room. “Yeah. Me neither.”

He nods, as though that’s all the explanation needed. His gaze flicks over me, taking in my tank top, shorts, and messy hair. I feel self-conscious for a split second, but then I remind myself it’s just Lincoln. Then again, it’s not just Lincoln. Not anymore.

“How long have you been at it?” I ask, nodding toward his makeshift workout space.

He stands, the muscles in his torso shifting in a way that sends a flutter through my stomach. “About thirty minutes, I guess. Didn’t want to wake you, so I stayed in here.”

“You didn’t,” I say quickly. “I was already awake.”

We fall into silence again, a tangible heaviness settling. My eyes keep drifting to the expanse of his chest, the faint line of hair trailing down his abdomen. I pull my gaze away and clear my throat, determined to focus on something else. “So… coffee?” I blurt.

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