The Hacker

by Renee Rose

  “And do we?”

  I laugh humorlessly at her choice of we instead of you. “Not yet, amerikanka. But I intend to unearth every last secret you or Alex have ever held.”

  She’s quiet for a moment, then she says, “I don’t know why, but that kind of turns me on.”

  My snort of laughter surprises me. “You like being the object of my investigation?”

  “Yes.”

  Damn, this girl. If she only knew how long I’ve been cyberstalking her.

  The deck seems to tilt as the dark trees murmur and shake around us. A sharp sense of ownership snaps into place between us. An exchange of power she willingly handed over.

  She’s baring herself to me. Offering herself up. Her life to my examination. Her body to my touch. Her innocence to my dark vengeance.

  I draw a deep breath trying to draw back from her siren’s song. I shouldn’t want to master her. To be the man she surrenders to.

  And yet the memory of Alex walking in that room with her makes me want to punch his teeth out. I don’t deserve this honor, and even if I did, I couldn’t take it. But no fucking way I think another man is worthy of her, either.

  “There are a few facts I haven’t been able to ferret out about you, Natasha.”

  “Like what?” Her voice is light. Teasing. She’s playing a game.

  She’s obviously decided she’s safe with me. I should be comforted by that fact. It proves her innocence in all this. Yet the bastard in me thinks I should keep her scared. Keep her on edge, so her fear provides the barrier between us that I can’t seem to keep up.

  “Why did you quit your job as an EMT?”

  “Your computer couldn’t tell you that?”

  “It delivers facts not reasons.”

  “What’s your guess?” Her voice is musical. Gentle. Like we’re lovers having a midnight soak together and not a prisoner and her prison guard.

  “My guess… is that you saw some things you couldn’t stomach.”

  She draws in an audible breath before she answers, “Exactly.” The force of her answer makes me turn around before I can catch myself.

  Because I need to see her face. I’m sorry when I find what I expected to see—a bleak, haunted expression.

  “Did someone die?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Old or young?”

  “There was more than one. It was five in a row.” Her voice breaks a little.

  I step closer, despite my resolve, and crouch at the edge of the hot tub. I’m in my jeans because I gave her my boxer shorts, but I took my shirt and socks off.

  “Can you believe that?” She gives a watery laugh. “Five in a row that we couldn’t save in time. Young, old. There was a heart attack victim, a gunshot wound, a toddler who’d choked on a hot dog and died before we got there. We lost them all. And that’s when I knew I’d chosen the wrong area of focus.”

  I catch her choice of words, and I’m intrigued. “And massage is the right area?”

  She gives an embarrassed little chuff. “Well, it’s closer.” She sounds defensive, and that bothers me.

  I sit cross-legged on the deck. I’m on the opposite side of the hot tub from her—safe enough distance—and my interest isn’t dick-led for once. I’ve been chewing on this mystery of her career change for a while now.

  “Hold on.” I put my palm up. “Why did you take that as an insult? Who made you think massage therapy wasn’t a worthy substitute?” As far as I can tell, she’s an amazing therapist. She finds all my tight spots without being told. If it weren’t for the iron erections they produced, I’d feel great after her massages.

  Her bowtie lips part in surprise. “I… I don’t know. Maybe my mom, but she never actually said that.” She lifts her slender shoulders which has the unfortunate effect of showing me the tops of her breasts as they come out of the water. “Maybe me.” The words fall heavy, like stones dropping into the water between us, and her lips twist like she’s tasting something bitter. Her gaze is suddenly far away.

  “What would you rather do or be?”

  She looks at me for a moment, and I’m sure there’s an answer. She knows exactly what she wants to do.

  “Tell me,” I prompt, hating that she’s holding it back from me.

  “I wanted to be a naturopath.”

  I make a mental note to research that. I’ve heard the word but have no idea what it actually means.

  “Why wanted past tense? What’s stopping you?”

  She lets out a little puff of air. “Money. I applied to schools after I got my undergrad, and I got in, but I didn’t get any scholarship offers. The thing is, I still have a pile of debt from my student loans from undergrad, and there aren’t any schools in Chicago, so it’s not just tuition I’d need to pay for, but room and board, as well. It’s just not feasible.”

  I frown. “You must know Ravil gives microloans to members of our community all the time.”

  “I can’t take on any more debt,” she snaps, but I hear the tears of frustration behind the anger, so I hold up my hands in surrender. “Right. I understand.”

  “I’m sorry.” She sinks lower in the water, dipping until it touches the bottom of her chin. Like she wants to disappear.

  I don’t want her hiding, so I expose my own flaws. “I actually have no idea what a naturopath is.”

  Her easy smile relaxes her whole face and sets my world on fire. “It’s like a doctor, but using holistic and alternative medicine to treat illness. It would be a four-year program, followed by a two-year residency.”

  “Ah. That makes sense.”

  She tilts her head, her red-blonde locks trailing in the water. “What does?”

  “The appeal of natural medicine. Considering who your mother is.”

  She nods. “Right. I grew up attending home births with my mother. We only use folk remedies when we are sick, even though my mother can write prescriptions now. I’ve seen time and again how the body balances itself when given the right support.”

  “I remember the poultice you made for Oleg when his leg was infected. He healed quickly. That’s probably a dying art.”

  Seeing her face shine at my words does crazy things to my stomach.

  “I believe in the body’s natural ability to heal, and I’m fascinated by all the alternative methods that are out there. I mean, I’ve seen women who couldn’t conceive get pregnant using Chinese herbs and acupuncture. Did you know Chinese medicine doesn’t believe in infertility except in a tiny percent of cases?”

  I shake my head, entranced, not so much by her words, but by her enthusiasm. The light that shines behind her face is brighter than the moon.

  “Are you interested in Chinese medicine?”

  “Well, I love it, but I don’t think acupuncture is my thing. I just want to learn everything, to be honest. And I believe Western medicine has its place, but there are so many remedies that have fallen by the wayside because they don’t have a patent and big pharma behind them, you know?”

  “I’m sure.” My mind is already working overtime trying to figure out how I can help her make all this happen, legally or illegally. Natasha has a passion, and she shouldn’t have to give up on her dreams because they are impractical. Or because she doesn’t have the support she requires.

  Besides, getting her out of Chicago—sending her safely away to naturopathy school for four years—suddenly seems like the best possible solution for my sanity. A compromise for the burning need I have to take care of her—to infiltrate her life and turn us both inside out in the process—without breaking my vow to Alyona.

  “You can get in the hot tub, you know.” Her voice is suddenly soft. I can’t decide if it’s shy or teasing.

  “No chance.” I climb to my feet.

  She splashes a little water across my feet. “Why no chance?”

  “You’re in there.” I speak as I walk to the French doors, my back to her. “Naked. Wet. Slippery.” My jeans are way too tight by the time my hand rests on the door handle,
like my verbal acknowledgment of her hot little siren body makes her even harder to resist. “And I have about nine hundred eighty ideas of what I could do to it.” I yank the door open and step through, pulling the door shut without looking back.

  “Dima?” she calls to me just before it clicks shut.

  I stop, dragging in a tortured breath. Fuck. I turn. “Da?”

  “I forgot a towel. Could you bring me one?”

  A growl of disapproval sounds in my throat. She’s manipulating me again. I try to cloak myself in annoyance while the thrill of anticipation wings around me, whipping me into a frenzy. I point a stern finger at her. “Only if you stay in that tub.”

  She gives a quick nod, her face pure innocence, and I should have known better.

  Or maybe I do.

  Maybe I knew what she would do from the moment she asked for the towel, and I wanted that outcome. My punishment. Both our rewards.

  This filter of the prisoner and her keeper that allows me to justify things I have no business doing.

  Because, of course, when I bring the towel to her, she stands up out of the hot tub, water streaming from her slick body, steaming around her in a cloud.

  Her breasts are perfection—pale, peach-tipped beauties with freckles that dip from her breastbone down between them.

  I snap the towel around behind her and use it to yank her up against my body roughly. “What did I tell you about staying in the hot tub?” I make my voice a menacing snarl—so unlike any voice I ever use with anyone in my life. Especially a beautiful woman.

  Maybe this helps me believe it isn’t real. What I am about to do to her. What I already did twice before. I’m playing a role, enacting a part for the bratva. I’m not falling for a woman.

  I’m not giving myself to her.

  I can’t offer that.

  Her wet hands brace against my bare chest, her soft lips part.

  I walk her backward, loving the mingle of fear and excitement in her gasp, her widened eyes. Her calves hit the back of a lounge chair, and I use the ends of the towel to keep her from falling back. “Turn around.” My words are smoky. Dangerous.

  She spins obediently, and I push her to her knees on the cushion. She grips the back of the chair. Her ass has a few marks from last night, and that gives me pause.

  Hurting Natasha was never my plan.

  “Spread your knees.” My guttural bark oddly fits out here in the darkened forest.

  Again, her enthusiasm couldn’t be doubted. Natasha, for all her sweetness, loves the kink. Somehow it makes me even crazier for her.

  I gather her wet hair in a bundle and tug her head back. “You like to be punished.” I slap lightly between her legs.

  She gasps and shivers, letting out a little note that sounds like, “ooh.”

  I spank her pussy again. The wet flesh slides under my fingers, inviting them to linger. A few more slaps, and then I accept the invitation, pushing my middle finger through her folds, seeking her clit. I find it and circle once, twice. I press my thumb over her asshole as I screw one finger into her. She’s wet—sopping wet.

  I pull my fingers out and give her ass a light spank. “You’re lucky there’s no olive oil out here, amerikanka, or I’d put my cock right here.” I press on her anus, making it flutter against the pad of my thumb. “I guess I’ll have to make you pay another way.”

  It’s wrong—ever so wrong—but I unzip my jeans. My cock is hard as steel for her, throbbing to be used for the benefit of us both.

  “I don’t have condoms, but I’m clean,” I tell her as I drag the head of my cock through her juices. I’m looking for consent.

  Maybe I’m hoping she’ll spook.

  She doesn’t. “I’m on birth control.”

  I ignore the part of my brain that wants to analyze who she went on it for.

  She wants me to fuck her.

  I grip her hair again, making her back arch when I pull. “You need me to show you what happens when you test me?”

  “Yes,” she breathes.

  Foolish girl. Foolish, beautiful, darling girl.

  I can’t help myself. I shove into her and my mind short-circuits at how good she feels. Her delicious wet heat. The way her tight channel hugs my member like a glove. It’s been so long since I’ve had sex, I’d forgotten how incredible it feels. But this doesn’t compare to those early fumbles of my youth. Everything is different. I’m a different man. Hardened by violence. Removed from life. I’m not a gentle lover. I’m not attentive, except to make sure she’s still enjoying it. That she still consents. I’m an animal, staking a momentary claim.

  And because it’s so different, it seems allowed.

  I slam in, fucking her hard.

  She arches that slender cat-back of hers, pushing her ass to meet my thrusts, taking me deep. My balls slap against her soft flesh. Every smack satisfies me in a way I don’t understand. I’m not a sadist. At least I didn’t think so. But the heady sense of power she offers with her surrender makes me high.

  Shame at the mental contortions I made to allow myself to do this mingles with the high, and I get even more brutal with my pounding, changing my grip to hold her hips and taking shorter strokes.

  Natasha starts to vocalize her need—short gasping cries that make me even more desperate to fuck the hell out of her. “Dima!”

  I both love and hate when she says my name.

  It makes it personal but sounds so damn perfect at the same time. Hell, this is personal. Me pretending it’s not is jacked.

  It’s cruel to Natasha.

  Unfair to Alyona.

  Torture to me.

  “Come, amerikanka,” I order. I have no idea why I think I can command a woman’s orgasm, but she squeezes around my dick like she’s trying to obey.

  “Blyad.’” Heat spikes at the base of my spine. I pump faster.

  “Dima.” She sounds alarmed now.

  I know the feeling. The pressure before the release. My movements get jerky as I slam in and out, hurtling to the edge of the precipice. And then I’m catapulted over it. I slam in hard and come.

  Natasha reaches between her legs to rub her own clit and tangle my fingers with hers, nudging her out of the way. As soon as I take over she comes. I bump in and out a few times to help bring it to a full finish.

  I pull out and give her ass a resounding slap—hard enough to make her flinch. “Bring your own towel next time,” I tell her, my voice deep and rough. I put my dick away, and then I go into my room and shut the door in true asshole fashion.

  11

  Natasha

  I wake to the sound of rain. The clock beside the bed says I slept until 9:30 a.m., which is far later than it seems because the sky outside is grey with a summer storm. It’s incredibly cozy. I want to pretend we’re here at this beautiful, luxurious cabin on a weekend getaway. That we have to stay in and play games together today, but when the rain lifts, we’ll go for a walk in the forest and enjoy the scent of rain on pine.

  I head downstairs. Dima’s in the office. I pass by to check on Nikolai, who I find awake.

  Yesterday we video chatted with Dr. Taylor to show him Nikolai’s wound, and he said everything was progressing well.

  “Are you wearing Dima’s boxer shorts?” he asks.

  “Yeah.” I tug on the hem. It’s one thing tempting Dima, it’s quite another to be inappropriate in front of his twin. “Oleg and Story brought out groceries and computer stuff, but they forgot to send us with clothes.”

  “At least yours weren’t cut off you.” Nikolai flicks his gaze down to his shirt, which was cut to the armpits for surgery. “So does that mean Dima’s free-balling it?” he smirks.

  I ignore the question, but he starts singing the lyrics to Tom Petty’s “Free Falling,” replacing falling with balling.

  I try not to smile, even though he is hilarious. “I guess you’re feeling better?”

  “Just loopy from these drugs. So, should I just pretend I didn’t hear you screaming outside my room l
ast night?” Nikolai says casually as I take his temperature. A strangled sound comes from my throat, and his lips twist into a grin. “Next time, you two could move a little farther away from the door, no?”

  “Sorry. It wasn’t exactly planned.”

  “No?” Nikolai lets disbelief ring in his voice.

  My face grows warm.

  “I’m not judging. I’m the opposite of judging, Natasha. I’ve been trying to get Dima to hook up with you since day one.”

  “Hook up?” I echo, not sure I like the sound of that.

  “Sorry. Did that offend you?” Nikolai winces as he tries to sit up more.

  I help him lean forward and adjust the pillows behind his shoulders. I hate how frail he seems.

  “May I ask you a question?” Without waiting for an answer, I ask it. “Why can’t Dima have a relationship?”

  Nikolai shakes his head slowly. He’s still pale, and his face needs a shave. “Is that what he said?”

  “Stop turning my questions into questions.”

  “What exactly did he say?”

  “He said, I can’t be in a relationship. I don’t want to lead you on.”

  “Blyad.’” Nikolai grunts and scrubs a hand across his face. “Then I suspect… he made a promise to a dead girl. And my brother doesn’t break his promises.”

  I stare at him in horror. A dead girl. The ring he wears on his finger. Why had it never occurred to me that he wears it as a remembrance?

  “Who was she?”

  Nikolai shakes his head. “It was so long ago.”

  I don’t know why I want to burst into tears—whether it’s for me or for him. I resist the urge.

  “Natasha…” Nikolai’s blue gaze—so identical to Dima’s—rests on my face, and he sees what I’m trying to hide. He reaches out and takes my hand. “At some point, the pain of resisting you will become greater than the pain of betraying his ghost. I hope… I just hope you can forgive him for the mess he’s making in the meantime.”

  I blink rapidly, the patchwork of bandages covering my heart loosening and peeling back. It’s not Dima asking for forgiveness but Nikolai on his behalf. It’s his twin admitting that Dima’s treated me unfairly.