Welcome back, my Wicked Ones!

I love the reaction everyone had last week, getting a little glimpse into Isabelle's life. It's not been an easy one, that's for sure!

Thank you so much to Fran S. Sunflower for beta reading this chapter, and to the pre-readers; PearlyFox, DaniDarlingxx, and Lily Jill. My ladies have my back every turn, and without them for me to constantly freak out at, this story wouldn't be HALF of what it is!

Last week:

"I'll see you soon, Bebe, okay?" I promise, reaching out to touch her soft gloved hand. I want to tell her more. I want to tell her about the shit I'm running, about the drugs and sex and violence. I want to tell her about the people I torture and kill and about the man who brought me the first real challenge I'd had in a very long time. I want to tell her how his eyes burn me and how I never know if I'm more tempted to kill him or drag him a little closer.

Mostly, I want to tell her that I miss her, my once best friend and only confidante. I miss her company, her laugh, and her smile. I miss the way she used to sneak in my bed and wrap her arms around my waist while we comforted each other to sleep. I miss braiding her hair and teaching her how to climb fences.

My heart aches and burns for all I've lost and all that she once stood for. It is a gaping wound in my soul that can never be fixed, never be soothed.

I am an incomplete person, and I have been since the day I lost my sister.

VIII

La Tentation

Edward

Sans tentation, il n'y a point de victoire

What the fuck am I doing?

The thought bounces around my mind, reverberating through me so deeply that I am filled with the hollow ringing of my own disbelief.

I've been undercover almost my entire career. It's what I know, what I'm best at. I know how to walk the edge of darkness, to blend in enough to uncover but never get sucked in.

One look from Isabelle, and I'm forgetting every fucking survival instinct I know.

Fuck.

I can feel her eyes still burning into me, even after she's left the Ring.

I can also feel the eyes of everyone left in the room. They are all staring at me, and the low profile I was trying to maintain has effectively been blown.

I swallow hard, will my body to stop thrumming from wrestling her, and turn to Felix. He's watching me silently, his expression impossible to read. I stare at him, unwilling to be the first to speak.

"How's that hand?" he asks finally.

My fist flexes reflexively, and I look down at my fingers. I had hairline fractures in my knuckles after our fight, not that I let it slow me down at all. It's not an injury I'm unfamiliar with.

"Fine," I tell him.

He nods. He looks like he wants to say something more but decides against it, turning instead back to the Ring. I swallow thickly and make my way to a treadmill.

I don't warm up, opting instead to jump straight in. I set a grueling pace that has my muscles and lungs burning within minutes. The pain helps me forget things I shouldn't know; like the feel of my head trapped between Isabelle's thighs or the way her body responded immediately to every one of my moves, almost as if we were…

Fuck. Stop it.

I suck in a breath and push harder until my legs feel like they're about to give out under me.

When I finish my run, my body is tired, but my mind is still flooded with the memory of the perfume she wore, and the feel of her tight, strong body wrapped around mine.

I leave the Ring, frustrated as hell. She's a fucking target, not someone I should be lusting after.

Sure, there have been times undercover when I've slept with women. It's usually one-night stands, the occasional fling, but it's never serious and never someone directly involved in my case. I can't even fathom the repercussions of ever pursuing Isabelle in that way.

I head back to my room, stripping down and heading straight for the shower. The heat of the water does nothing to help me, clouding my mind and senses until my skin is positively itching. Before I can help it, I'm reaching for my dick, hissing as my fingers wrap around it.

I try not to think of Isabelle as I begin stroking myself, try not to picture her on her knees in front of me, looking up at me with those eyes that see right fucking through me. I don't want to imagine that red lipstick she always wears, smearing over my cock as she works me over.

I reach down, working my balls as I desperately try not to imagine my head buried between those thighs again, feasting from her pink cunt. God, she probably tastes like she smells; expensive and lethal.

I fight my mind as it conjures up a series of positions I want to take her in. She's flexible, and I know her stamina is solid, which means there are all sorts of possibilities.

I remember the burning heat of her as she wrapped one leg around my waist while the other hooked over my shoulder, bringing me so close to her cunt that for a second, I imagine I can feel it, hot and wet and slick, demanding me to slip right inside. In that position, I'd sink into her so deep, she'd be able to feel me for fucking days.

I wouldn't stop there. I'd flip her over, get that tight ass in the air and sink into her from behind, pinning her entire body with mine as I pounded into her, driving her into the mats. I imagine her fighting me for control, and the idea sends lightning to my aching cock.

The thought of dominating this formidable woman is just as appealing to me as the thought of being dominated.

She is power; raw and pulsing, and I want to consume and be consumed.

I can feel the orgasm starting to build, crawling up my spine like a rising pressure gauge as I bend her in half, shove her against walls, drive into her over and over as we fight for power, control, leverage, anything.

I want it all.

My release is explosive and sends me to my knees, my palms flat on the shower floor as I try desperately to catch my breath; shudders running through my body as the pleasure ebbs out of me.

Isabelle is a force of fucking nature, and I don't know what I fear more; submitting to her or never giving in to the temptation at all.

-V-

I don't know how to feel.

Obviously, some very primal part of me is attracted to Isabelle, which makes sense. She is a temptation in just about every way I can be tempted.

She also may be a psychopath.

No matter how my body is lusting after her, I cannot forget what I've seen her do. Isabelle is cold, unforgiving, bordering on psychotic.

Is she, though?

Mark Gelson was a despicable human being, and it makes me sick to think that the legal system, my system, failed to deliver justice. How many more of them are out there?

I hate that Gelson's confession will only live on in the memories of the four of us in that room; that there was not more witness to his crimes. I want everyone to know just how horrible he was, and I want the families he's hurt to be given the small consolation of knowing he cannot hurt anyone else.

I'm burning for justice for those families, those children.

I flip the thoughts over in my mind repeatedly as I leave the compound. I make sure I'm not being followed by weaving through the city, aimlessly stopping at inconsistent intervals.

When I'm sure I've shaken any tail I might have had; I make my way across town.

Liam's Pub is notoriously gaudy, catering more to suburban families looking to spice up their evening rather than any hardened criminals. The restaurant is decorated with leprechaun paraphernalia, and the waiters serve with horrible fake accents.

Across the pub is the bar, where a slightly different clientele can be found. Usually, businessmen getting a drink before driving home to the suburbs and the occasional prostitute.

I spot Liam getting a drink behind the bar, and he nods to me, tilting his head slightly toward his office. I nod back to him, heading across the bar and slipping down the hall.

Liam's office is neutral ground, and if I have to meet Sam in person, we typically meet here. This is a place where we both can move through, undetected.

Sam is already in the office when I slip inside. He's sitting on Liam's worn sofa, his long legs kicked out in front of him as he checks his phone. He looks up at me when I come in, and I see the relief in his eyes.

"What is it?" I ask, immediately on alert. We don't meet that often when I'm undercover, and though it's not too unusual for me to hear from him this early in an operation, it's usually just a phone call.

"How are you?" Sam asks, getting to his feet. I frown at him.

"I'm fine." What is he getting at? He nods, pacing around the small office. "Sam, what's going on?"

He glances at me and takes a breath.

"Judge Morales was found dead the other night," he says, taking me by surprise. I am careful not to let my expression change.

"I heard. Suicide, right?"

Sam looks at me. "That's what the coroner is saying," he says slowly. I know him well enough to know he doesn't believe this.

"But?" I ask.

Sam shakes his head. "Judge Morales was one of the top judges in this state. She was on the fast track to being nominated to the Supreme Court, and she just what, offs herself?"

I don't respond. I can't prove it, but I highly suspect Isabelle was behind the Judge's sudden demise. "What has this got to do with anything?"

Sam looks at me. "Word is, she left a note."

I stare at him. "A suicide note?"

He nods. "Naming names. I can't get anyone to confirm this for me, but the shit that woman knows…" he paused, looking at me. "She knew who you are."

I shake my head. "Even if she knows I'm undercover," I say, frowning. "That doesn't mean she'd just randomly out me in a suicide note. I didn't know her."

I can see why Sam is worried, but I also know his worries are unfounded. Isabelle would have wanted one thing from the judge, and I suspect she had gotten it.

"Just," he reaches up to scratch his chin. "Watch, your back, yeah? Contact me if even the slightest thing feels off," he presses.

"Of course, Sam. I'm not an idiot." I nod.

He lets out a long breath, and it looks like he's been sitting on this anxiety for some time.

"How are things going?" Sam asks, plopping onto the sofa. I pull up a chair across from him and shrug.

"Fine. I'm in at La Cathédrale, and I've made contact with Jasper."

Sam's eyes snap up to mine. "Saint Jasper?" he asks, his eyes growing wide. I nod.

"Nothing major yet; they are still running me," I pause. I should tell him Jasper is just a puppet, that the real power lies in their queen behind the curtain. I should tell him everything I've seen, everything I've gathered evidence of so far, but the words die in my throat.

Not yet.

"How did you manage to make contact so quickly?" he hisses. I shrug.

"I knew the right people."

Sam frowns, leaning back. "Jasper is rumored to have his hands in quite a bit of drug activity. Not just in this state, but he has ties around the world." He pauses, his eyes focusing on me. "Do you think you'll be able to get enough on the organization?"

I consider his question. "Yes," I say eventually. "I need time, though. This place isn't run like anything I've ever seen before."

I stop myself from saying more. I don't want to sound impressed with Isabelle's ghost organization, even though I am.

"Do you have a preliminary report?" Sam asks.

I focus on him. "I'm working one up. Like I said, they are still running me, so I don't have enough yet."

Sam nods. "Right, of course." He shakes his head. "Damn, Masen, you move faster than any other agent we have."

I smirk, leaning back into my chair. It's because I was born for this job.

"How are things on your end?"

Sam rolls his eyes. "Tense, like usual. Captain's coming under some heat because of the increased drug activity in the precinct, like it's his fault scum keep moving into the neighborhood."

I frown. "How is he taking it?"

Sam waves me off. "Like a champ, of course. He's not sweating it at all. He's got faith in you guys out here."

This warms me to hear but also makes me feel guilty. I should tell Sam about Isabelle; I should…

"We're getting a visit from the governor next month," Sam continues, and I shake my thoughts free to focus on him again.

"Really?"

He nods. "Some political junket, I don't know. Captain wants shit in the city cleaned up enough, so the Governor doesn't come down on our asses." He rolls his eyes. "Bureaucracy, what can you do, right?"

I nod slowly. I've never liked our governor, for no reason other than instinct tell me not to trust the man.

"Word is," Sam continues. "He's here to rub elbows with Passon, get in good with him so that he'll keep funding his campaign for reelection."

This gets my attention. "He's friends with Passon?"

Sam frowns at me. "Passon is his single biggest backer."

A shiver runs down my spine, and I suddenly know why I don't trust the governor. I had never trusted Aro Passon before, but now I know there is a legitimate reason for it…

My hands flex into fists as I think about Gelson's confession. What else is Passon doing that he's hiding with his immense wealth? What more could he be getting away with?

I remember the look on Isabelle's face as soon as Passon was mentioned; the cold fury that came over her. Something darker and deeper than loathing. Passon is a man she wants vengeance on. I don't know what he's done to her to invoke her wrath, and frankly, part of me doesn't want to know.

"What do you know about Passon?" I ask Sam. He frowns, glancing away to think.

"I don't know. He's one of the biggest donors in the city. He's single-handedly funding half our operations' special programs." He shakes his head. "Do you know how much he donated to the force last year? It was a couple million at least."

It makes me sick to think that a corrupt man might be paying my salary in any way. "Any illegal ties?" I ask.

Sam frowns. "No, none that I've heard of." He pauses. "I mean, I guess you don't get to become a billionaire without stepping on a few throats, but nothing unsavory," he says firmly. I take a careful breath, nodding slowly. "Why the interest?"

I consider how to respond to that. "I just don't know much about him," I say finally. "I've heard a few people bitching about him." I tilt my head to indicate that the people I'm talking about are mob-related. He nods. "Passon helped fund one of the task forces a few years back, took out a nasty mob, remember that?" he asks. I nod, recalling the information as he speaks.

"Yeah, I do."

Sam shrugs. "I'm sure they are feeling threatened by him. He's not shy about his desire to clean up the city."

I nod and tuck all this away to think about later.

"What else has happened?" Sam asks. I shift my focus back to him and nod. I'm supposed to tell Sam everything that happens…my life often depends on it. But for some reason, it feels too soon to tell him all that I've learned.

I outline the runs Jasper has taken me on, omitting information about kidnapping Gelson. I tell him the network seems vast, but I don't know how deep it goes yet, and that Jasper seems to be pulling strings, near and far.

I can't bring myself to tell him about Isabelle at all.

We don't linger. Our conversation is brief, covers the details of my assignment and any messages he has from my old life. There are none except for Carlisle, wishing me well.

When we leave, I head out first, knowing Sam will wait about an hour before leaving himself.

No one looks my way as I slip out of the pub.

-V-

The city is just waking up for the night as I make my way back toward La Cathédrale. I allow myself to take the time, wandering the streets.

I pass the neighborhood where I grew up, the neighborhood I ripped Gelson out of last night. Memories burn my mind as I spot the small corner market where I used to pick up milk and bread for my mom on my way home from school, and I force myself to keep moving, not slow down as I pass.

A few streets down, I spot the curb where I broke my first bone riding bikes with a pack of neighborhood kids. I was a shrimp, trying to prove I could keep up. I'd collided with a trash can, and I'd flown off my bike, fracturing my arm in two places.

The next day, I was back on the bike, riding around with one arm in a sling.

I've never been able to accept no as an answer, especially when I'm trying to prove myself.

It's a fatal flaw, that stubbornness of his. It's going to get him fucking killed.

I can still hear my father's gruff voice, brutally punching holes into my self-esteem as a child.

Those are memories I want to think about even less than my mother, and as soon as they surface, I shove them back down again.

Not him, not again.

Not ever.

I clear my old neighborhood, and as soon as I do, I breathe a little easier. I have memories all over the city, but outside that four-block square, they are a little less aggressive, a little less raw.

A glance at the sky tells me that it's getting ready to rain again, and though I'm unprepared for it, I continue to take my time. If I'm caught in the rain, so be it.

My mind turns to Isabelle as I walk. Where does a woman like her come from? What sort of horrors did she have to endure to become what she is?

I try not to, but my mind wanders back to Mark Gelson. What does a person have to live through to be able to inflict that upon someone else?

I feel like I should be horrified, disgusted, even afraid of Isabelle, but I know I'm not. I have a healthy dose of fear toward her, but it does not color who she is to me because, despite my better judgment, I'm starting to respect the hell out of the woman.

My thoughts are confusing, and even as they circle my mind, some part of me recognizes I'll never be able to tell the department shrink about this after my undercover assignment is up.

The thought almost makes me snort.

I'm about four blocks from the cathedral when the skies open up. The downpour is sudden and intense, and I have to pull myself into an alcove just to be able to see.

A taxi pulls up in the street in front of me, and I watch it for something to do while I wait out the heaviest part of this rain.

The back door opens, but no umbrella emerges. Instead, a brunette head steps out of the cab. I catch a glimpse of her profile, and my heart lurches in my throat. It's the same reaction I always have whenever I see a brunette woman around my age.

Some part of me has never given up hope of finding her.

The woman shuts the back of the cab and slips down the street, and I have to calm myself the hell down. Now that I look at her, she looks too young; dressed in jeans and Converse sneakers. And really, there are thousands of brunette women in the city. I have to stop reacting like this.

I wait on the stoop for the rain to clear some, and when it grows a little lighter, I slip back on the street and continue toward the compound.

Both Edward and Isabelle have pretty complicated histories, but don't worry, we'll be diving into those!

Also, if you are on Facebook and are interested in seeing some VERY NSFW teasers, reach out to me and I'll add you to the chat group. I've started running that this week to post my more... blatant... inspirational pictures and gifs. lol. It's absolutely 18+ material!

Translations:

1. La Tentation - The Tempataion (French)

2. Sans tentation, il n'y a point de victoire - Without temptation, there is no victory. (French)