Page 14 of Taking What's Mine

For a moment, we just stand there, staring at each other in the warm light of the safe house. The tension is practically palpable, but neither of us moves to cross that line. We can’t. Not now, not with everything at stake.

She breaks the spell, grabbing a small clutch from the table. “Ready?”

“Yeah,” I say, nodding grimly. “Let’s go find this bastard.”

We gather our essentials, double-check the plan, then head for the SUV. My heart pounds with a mixture of anticipation and dread, but one thing is crystal clear: I’ll do anything—absolutely anything—to protect Isabel tonight. Even if it means pretending we’re intimately entangled, even if it means pushing down every urge that stirs when I see her in that damn dress.

She slides into the passenger seat, and I slam the door behind her. When I climb in, our eyes meet, and some unspoken understanding passes between us. This isn’t just another job. For both of us, it’s personal.

I fire up the engine, and we pull onto the dark road leading away from the safe house. Next stop: Club Greed—and the next step in a game that might be far more dangerous than either of us is willing to admit.

Chapter 8

Isabel

The black SUV rolls to a stop outside Club Greed, and I have to remind myself to breathe. My heart is racing, a mix of adrenaline and anticipation flooding my system. Lincoln and I step out of the SUV, and he hands his keys to the valet. We’re on the guest list, courtesy of a tip from my contact at the police station, who knows Chloe Huxley—wife of the club’s elusive owner, Devereaux.

My pulse thrums with excitement and a trace of nerves. This place already looks wildly out of my comfort zone, but in the best possible way. The building itself is enormous—tall, dark windows that hide whatever decadent secrets lie inside. Music pulses through the walls, heavy bass notes spilling onto the street. Standing close to Lincoln, I catch a whiff of his cologne—something woodsy, masculine, and maddeningly appealing. The heat from his body radiates toward me, steady and reassuring.

He places a hand on the small of my back as we head for the entrance. Normally, I’d scoff at such a proprietary gesture, but tonight, it feels right. We’re supposed to look like a couple, anyway. And maybe, if I’m being honest with myself, I enjoy the protective weight of his palm there.

The bouncer, a giant man with arms thicker than my thighs, barely gives us a second glance once he confirms our names on the list. He unhooks the velvet rope and nods us forward. I can’t help but feel a tiny jolt of power as we stride in, skipping the waiting crowd. Even though I know this place is dangerous—Morris Rolfe might be lurking in its shadows—the thrill of the unknown sparks something inside me.

We step into a sprawling foyer lit by a massive chandelier. The overhead fixture is shaped like a twisted helix of metal and glass, dripping with crystals that refract light in wild patterns across the marble floor. A hostess in a black bustier and fishnet stockings flashes us a sensual smile, gesturing us through another set of doors. The moment those doors swing open, the music hits full force, a throbbing beat that vibrates in my bones.

I glance at Lincoln, and he nods curtly, urging me onward. I straighten my spine, push my shoulders back, and follow the hostess into what can only be described as a den of vice. The entire place is bathed in pulsing reds and violets, shadowed corners revealing glimpses of couples pressed intimately against walls or tangled on curved velvet couches. There’s a bar area front and center, a long stretch of mirrored glass that seems to glow from within. Several bartenders—decked out in tight black outfits—serve drinks while patrons either lounge or, in some cases, make out with blatant abandon.

To our left, a roped-off section features plush booths and tinted windows, hinting at private gatherings. Across from that, thecenterpiece of the club: a wide, curved white marble staircase that winds up to a second level I can’t fully see from here. Whatever’s up there, it’s probably even more exclusive. My heart pounds—this is definitely not a place I’ve ever been, or even imagined going. Yet, a forbidden thrill surges through me.

Lincoln leans close to my ear, his voice rumbling. “You okay?”

I swallow, nodding, the bass thrumming in my chest. “Better than okay,” I say, and I’m surprised by how breathy I sound. “This place is… intense.”

He offers me a half-smile, that flicker of warmth in his dark eyes. It’s only a second or two before he returns to the stoic mask he usually wears, scanning the crowd for any signs of trouble. But for those few heartbeats, I catch a glimpse of the man behind the protective walls. Heat coils in my belly, remembering how close we got while shopping for these clothes, how he helped me zip my dress. The brush of his knuckles on my back, his eyes dark with longing even though he fought to stay composed.

Focus, Isabel, I chide myself. This is a mission.

The music shifts to a new track with heavier bass, making the floor vibrate under my heels. Lincoln’s hand remains at my lower back as we navigate through clusters of well-dressed couples. We reach the bar, finding two empty stools near one end. The bar itself is made of mirrored panels, each reflecting the throng of people in chaotic, kaleidoscopic angles. It’s almost dizzying.

I settle onto a stool, crossing my legs. The slit in my black dress falls open just enough to hint at my thigh, and I notice Lincoln’s gaze flick there for the briefest moment before he tears his eyes away. A tiny surge of satisfaction warms me. He might be ex-military, controlled and disciplined, but he’s not immune to me. Not entirely.

A bartender with platinum-blonde hair and a sleek black outfit approaches, leaning forward with a sultry grin. “What’ll it be?”

I exchange a glance with Lincoln. We want to appear like we belong, so we don’t want to order anything too plain. At the same time, I don’t want to overthink it. “Something sweet and strong,” I say with a playful arch of my brow.

Lincoln orders a whiskey neat. It’s fitting—he’s the stoic, no-frills type, and even here in this wild environment, it suits him perfectly. The bartender nods and sets to work, pulling bottles from behind the bar.

I take the chance to observe the clientele. A couple next to us is deep in conversation—scratch that, the woman is basically perched on the man’s lap, running her fingers through his hair while he murmurs something in her ear. Across the bar, two women sway on their stools, giggling as they share a neon-colored cocktail. The air is thick with desire. Everyone here seems to be chasing some form of decadent thrill, whether it’s physical, emotional, or maybe something more sinister.

Lincoln shifts closer, brushing his leg against mine in the limited space. “See anything interesting?” he asks, voice pitched low for my ears only.

I bite my lip, scanning the room. “Plenty. Although, I’m not sure we’re going to find Rolfe just by looking. He probably has his own suite or something.”

“Agreed,” Lincoln says, giving the crowd another sweeping glance. “But let’s see what we can learn from the staff before we go exploring.”

Just then, the bartender returns, placing a martini-style glass in front of me. It fizzes softly, pink foam at the top, and smells like strawberries and a hint of champagne. Lincoln’s whiskey gleams amber in a lowball glass. I thank the bartender with a smile, then take a sip. Sweetness explodes on my tongue, followed by a gentle burn of alcohol. It’s surprisingly good.

Lincoln picks up his whiskey. “We’re looking for someone,” he says calmly, swirling the liquor in his glass. “Heard he might be around tonight.”

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