The Hacker (Chicago Bratva 5)

I’ve pretended it’s her fault—that she’s the wicked temptation, luring me from the vows I made to Alyona on her deathbed, but in fact, the truth is the fault is only mine.

She’s not wicked. She’s sweet, even when she’s purposely being a temptation. And she doesn’t know about those vows.

Part of me wants to tell her—to explain why I can’t. To admit my attraction, which has to be obvious at this point, and be honest with her. Tell her it can’t ever happen. We can’t ever happen.

But even that conversation feels like a betrayal to Alyona.

Like, the moment I bring her up to Natasha, I’ve forever sullied her memory. I’ve made her the other woman. The one I left behind for this new, shiny, alive one.

And I can’t do that to Alyona.

She gave me everything. Her vulnerability. Her whole heart. I loved the person I was when I was with her because she loved me. I’m lucky—I’ve always had Nikolai. Twins are never lonely. But until Alyona, I was Nikolai’s twin. He’s the more social one. The funny one. He has charisma. I always let him do the talking for the two of us. Alyona made me feel like I was the special one. The one worth talking to. Spending time with. Planning a future with.

And then the cancer came.

She was so damn brave. I still remember how thin and cold and bony her hand felt in mine when we sat together waiting for her chemo treatments. How she’d let me distract her and make her smile to pretend none of it was happening. The way she trembled when we finally talked about the end.

That was when I promised her I’d never love another. Never replace her. She was my first, and she’d be my last.

She had to face death at seventeen—seventeen! It’s not too much for me to keep the promise I made to her.

I hear movement upstairs. Natasha is awake.

I washed my clothes last night, and now I leave my clean boxer shorts on the kitchen counter with the chocolate. I won’t survive Natasha running around bare-assed, and so help me, if she lets Nikolai see her that way, I will have to kill him.

Or something.

I head into the office to return to the only thing that has ever made sense to me—cyber-stalking and hacking.

Behind a screen, I am still God. Even if I don’t know my head from ass in this cabin.

I listen to Natasha. I hear her speaking softly to Nikolai, the sweet healer, checking in on her patient first. Then I hear sounds from the kitchen. The pop of the toaster oven. The opening and closing of the refrigerator.

I try not to picture the way she looked last night, standing on her tiptoes, that short shirt pulled up above her waist showing me the full moon of her pale ass.

That pale ass I turned red.

Fuck. Did I force her? There was something harsh and punitive to what went down, but it was consensual…. Wasn’t it? I was sure last night, but after barely sleeping because I couldn’t stop replaying what happened, it all feels fuzzy now.

She’s overly agreeable. The type you could easily take advantage of.

I mean, I know I got her off. She was sopping wet. She came around my fingers over and over again.

But is she sorry today? Does she feel used? Taken advantage of? Forced?

For once, the screen holds no answers for me. I can’t cyberstalk her to get an answer to this question. To make sure she’s okay.

Dammit.

I push back from my chair and get up.

I find her sitting at the long farm table. She’s still in the fishing t-shirt—braless, of course, because heaven holds no mercy on me. I can’t tell whether she’s wearing my boxers or not, but a quick glance at the counter shows me they’re gone.

“Thanks for the chocolates.” Her gaze is warm and soft on me.

I shrug, not taking a seat. “I didn’t know what kind you like, so I bought them all.”

Her lips twitch in amusement. “That was good thinking. I would’ve hit anything last night, but I’ll start with the Heath bar. I’ll eat them all, for sure. The Hershey bar will probably be low on my list. I’m actually a chocolate snob. I go for the gourmet eighty-five percent dark chocolate kind of bars.”

“Gourmet bars first, then Heath. Got it.” Dammit, what am I doing? I’m not her boyfriend. I won’t be buying her more chocolates. “I didn’t know you had a thing for chocolate.”

“You don’t know a lot of things about me.”

Not true.

At least, I probably know far more than she thinks. But I hadn’t gone so far as to stalk her grocery choices.

“It’s my stress go-to, and, um, this is stressful.” She lifts her hands with a wry scrunch of her nose. It’s adorable.