｡  *  𓏲  —  ꒰   Thread  :  isabelle & Bishop  . - Blog Posts

while jobs like these were above her pay grade these days, there was something about doing them with bishop that left her pulse racing. the intrigue of pretending to be different people for the night while still always together, his arm around her waist and her hand on his chest to let everyone know they were each other's. she nods, eyes glinting as they move towards the high rollers table and she allows her mask of shallow trophy wife to settle in as they approach their target. a smirk takes her lips, turning her lips towards his ear. "gladly. if he goes for it after midnight though, you have to buy me a sybian." she settles a hand atop his shoulder as he places his bets, mouth curving at the familiar number. their hotel room and then the date of their anniversary years later, cementing the number as theirs. dark eyes settle across the table on viktor. she allows her smile to grow somewhat sly as she gazes at him, noticing the fact that the creeps eyes settled on every curve except her eyes. but that had been the plan, always was. let him assume that her husband was the only one of the two that was dangerous. she grins when bishop wins, bending down to press a kiss to her husband's cheek. "well done, mi amor. i told you i was your lucky charm." she says loud enough for the table to hear, noticing their target's eyes settling on her husband.

ten  years  of  this  dance ,   stolen  kisses  in  safe  houses,  her  heel  digging  into  his  calf  during  interrogations  —  and  still  she  could  make  his  pulse  stutter  like  a  faulty  detonator.   across  the  room,  viktor  shoved  away  from  the  table,  his  security  detail  a  trio  of  gorillas  in  ill-fitting  suits.  bishop’s  grip  tightened  imperceptibly  on  isabelle’s  waist.  “time  to  cash  in,”  he  murmured,  nodding  toward  the  high-limit  roulette  pit  where  cigarette  smoke  coiled  like  ghosts  above  emerald  felt.   “shall  we  wager?  if  he  takes  the  bait  before  midnight…  you  owe  me  that  thing  with  the  handcuffs.” sharp smirk, and a squeeze of her hip.  he slid into a vacant seat, stacking chips with deliberate slowness.  “no  more  bets.”  he  stacked  his  chips  with  the  precision  of  a  man  who’d  counted  cards  in  back-alley  parlors  since  he  could  shave.  black  29.  the  number  hummed  in  his  veins  —  same  as  the  hotel  room  where  they’d  first  fucked  during  a  storm  in  miami ,  rain  slashing  the  windows  as  she’d  dug  her  nails  into  the  scar  on  his  shoulder.  superstitious?  maybe.  but  survival  in  their  line  of  work  required  rituals  sharper  than  prayer. the  roulette  wheel  spun,  ivory  ball  clattering.  bishop  didn’t  watch  it.  he  watched  isabelle’s  throat  flutter  as  she  laughed  —  a  sound  like  breaking  crystal  —  and  the  way  viktor’s  piggish  eyes  tracked  the  sway  of  her  hips.  let  the  bastard  look.  let  him  salivate.  the  ball  clattered  to  a  stop.  “black  29.”  the  croupier  announced,  voice  flat  as  a  coroner’s.  a  ripple  went  through  the  crowd  —  tourists  clutching  pearls,  high  rollers  eyeing  bishop’s  growing  pile.  he  let  his  gaze  slide  to  viktor.  the  man  was  staring  now,  piggish  eyes  glinting  — that  always  undid  his  kind.  there  you  are.