19. Katarina
KATARINA
I turn another page of the Russian novel I found in the compound's library, more interested in the man across from me than the words on the page.
Erik sits in the leather armchair, his large frame making it seem smaller than it is.
The tablet in his hands bathes his face in a blue glow that accentuates the sharp angles of his jaw.
The compound is quiet tonight. Too quiet. I've grown accustomed to the background hum of voices and the occasional laughter from one of Erik's brothers. But tonight, there's just the sound of my page turning and Erik's finger occasionally tapping on the screen.
His brow furrows as he reviews what I assume are security protocols.
I watch his fingers move across the tablet, the same fingers that have traced every inch of my body with surprising gentleness.
His focus is mesmerizing, the way his entire being centers on the task at hand.
I've experienced that focus firsthand and felt it burn through me like wildfire.
“Find something interesting in that book?” he asks without looking up.
I smile despite myself. “Not as interesting as watching you work.”
A small twitch at the corner of his mouth is the only indication he heard me. The scar on his eyebrow stands out more prominently when he concentrates like this.
The lights flicker once, then twice, before stabilizing.
In an instant, Erik transforms. The relaxed man reviewing documents vanishes, replaced by the predator I first met.
His tablet clatters to the floor as he springs to his feet, one hand reaching for the weapon at his hip.
His eyes scan the room, no longer soft with concentration but sharp, cataloging threats.
“Stay where you are,” he commands.
I freeze, book forgotten in my lap. It's like watching a switch flip—from civilian to soldier in less than a heartbeat. His entire body language has shifted; his shoulders are tense, his stance is widened, and his center of gravity is lowered. I've never seen anything happen so fast.
The lights flicker again, and Erik moves toward me, placing himself between me and the door.
When he reaches me, his hand wraps around my arm—firm enough to convey urgency but gentle enough not to hurt. The contradiction is so perfectly Erik, that I almost smile despite the tension crackling in the air.
“We need to move. Now.” His voice is clipped and authoritative, all business in a way that would have infuriated me days ago.
But when his eyes meet mine, I catch something different there—concern, maybe.
Protectiveness. Something he doesn't verbalize but that softens the harsh edges of his command.
What surprises me most is my own reaction.
I expected panic to flood my system—that fight-or-flight response that had been my constant companion during my first days here.
Instead, a strange calm washes over me. I don't question him.
I don't argue. I simply nod and place the book aside, rising to my feet.
I trust him. The realization should terrify me more than whatever unknown threat has him on alert, but it doesn't. Somehow, despite everything, I've come to trust this man's instincts. When had that happened? When had I started seeing him as my protector rather than my captor?
Erik's hand remains firm on my arm as he guides me through the darkened hallways of the compound. The emergency lights cast long shadows, transforming the familiar corridor into something alien and threatening. But my mind isn't focused on the danger—it's analyzing patterns.
“Stay close,” Erik murmurs, his voice barely audible as we move. His body shields mine, positioning himself between me and any potential threat.
However, my attention is caught by something different. The way the lights failed—sequential rather than simultaneous. The specific systems affected. The emergency lights came on exactly four seconds after the main power dropped. Not five. Not three.
Four.
I've seen this pattern before. My fingers itch for a keyboard, for access to system logs that would confirm what my instincts are already telling me.
The cameras in the east wing went dark first, followed by the security panels and then the main grid. It's not the random cascade of a genuine power failure. It's deliberate. Orchestrated.
“Wait.” I plant my feet, forcing Erik to stop.
His expression hardens. “We don't have time for?—”
“This isn't random,” I say, meeting his gaze directly. “I've seen this signature before. It's a specific type of systems breach.”
Erik's eyes narrow, his jaw tensing as he processes my words. I watch the conflict play across his face—the professional soldier weighing my expertise against his training and protocols. His hand moves instinctively toward his weapon, but his eyes stay locked on mine, assessing, calculating.
“Explain,” he finally says, voice taut with restraint.
“The pattern of failure. The timing between systems going down. It's methodical.” I lower my voice. “Someone's creating a rolling blackout to mask their approach. They're using the Blackwater Protocol—it's a specialized infiltration technique.”
Something shifts in Erik's expression. The conflict doesn't disappear, but it transforms into something more complex. He's weighing my value as an asset against the risk of trusting me.
“How would you know that?” he asks, his voice dangerously quiet.
I take a deep breath and meet Erik's intense gaze. “I can help,” I say, fully aware of what I'm asking for—access to systems that have been forbidden to me since the moment I was brought here. “This is a sophisticated breach. I've seen it before.”
Erik's jaw tightens, the muscles there flexing as he weighs his options. I hold my breath as he considers my proposal—the security professional battling with the man who's shared his bed, his past, pieces of himself.
Long seconds pass before he nods sharply. “Security office. Now.”
Something shifts between us with those three words—a new level of trust neither of us expected. The air feels different, charged with something beyond the danger surrounding us.
“If you're playing me...” he starts, his voice low with warning.
I cut him off immediately. “I'm not. This is my expertise, Erik. Let me help you.” My words are firm and confident. This is my territory, not his.
He leads me through a series of corridors I've never been allowed to access before.
When the security office door slides open, it feels like entering a forbidden temple—all the technology I've been denied for weeks laid out before me.
Multiple screens line the walls, servers hum in the background, and most importantly, there's a keyboard at the main station.
My fingers hover over the keys, a moment of hesitation washing over me. This could be my chance—to send a message out, to alert someone, to escape. No one would understand these systems better than me.
But I look up at Erik and see the trust in his eyes that's cost him so much to give. The vulnerability beneath the soldier's exterior.
I begin typing, the familiar click of keys under my fingertips like coming home. “They're using a sophisticated multi-layer attack,” I explain, hands flying across the keyboard. “See how they've created cascading failures to mask the actual breach point? Classic misdirection.”
Erik stands to guard behind me. His presence is solid and reassuring. Somehow, his proximity makes me work faster, better—as if his confidence in me has unlocked something.
Then I see it—familiar strings of code scrolling across the diagnostic screen.
“This is impossible,” I whisper, fingers freezing over the keys.
“What is it?” Erik's voice is close to my ear, his breath warm on my neck.
“They're using a modified version of my encryption protocol—something I designed. Someone stole my work.” The realization hits me like a physical blow. My creation, my intellectual property, turned against us.
The violation feels personal, igniting determination that burns away any remaining hesitation. The person behind this attack has just made it personal.
The security office is barely large enough for a single person, let alone two. Erik stands behind me, so close I can feel the heat radiating from his body. The proximity makes it hard to focus on the code dancing across the screen, especially with the weight of what's happening around us.
I type furiously, following the digital footprints of whoever stole my work. Erik leans forward to examine the intrusion pattern, his broad chest pressing against my back. The solid wall of him should feel threatening, but instead, it grounds me.
“There,” he says, his voice low against my ear. His hand covers mine on the mouse, guiding the cursor to a suspicious sequence. “Is that what you meant?”
It surprises me that Erik identified the suspicious code, but all I can focus on is how my skin erupts in goosebumps at his touch. I nod, swallowing hard. “Yes. That's the signature. How did you identify it?” His hand lingers on mine a moment longer than necessary before withdrawing.
“My brother is a master hacker. You learn a trick or two when he’s constantly going on about python and javascript.”
That makes sense, but Erik never struck me as a guy who bothered with computers too much.
I force myself to concentrate on the breach rather than the man behind me, but it's nearly impossible.
His proximity is intoxicating, a distraction I can't afford yet can't seem to resist. Every time he shifts, every breath against my neck splits my attention between the crisis and the maddening awareness of him.
“I need you to implement this countermeasure,” I say, my fingers flying across the keyboard faster than I ever have, even during my most intense coding sessions. The code pours from me despite the pressure.
I glance up from the screen, expecting to find Erik studying the monitor. Instead, his eyes are fixed on my face. There's something in his gaze—admiration? Trust? Whatever it is, it consumes me like wildfire.
“Now!” I command, completing the final sequence.
Without hesitation, Erik reaches past me to execute the program. Our shoulders press together as we watch the systems respond. One by one, the red warning lights turn green. The breach is contained.
We stare at the screen in shared disbelief as everything comes back online. The victory feels oddly intimate—something we built together against impossible odds. A connection neither of us expected.
“We did it,” I breathe, turning toward him.
His face is inches from mine, those dark eyes capturing mine. “You did it,” he corrects softly, pride evident in his voice.
My heart races wildly, and I can't blame it on the adrenaline of the breach anymore.
The adrenaline that kept me focused during the breach suddenly evaporated, leaving me empty and shaky. I grip the edge of the desk, trying to steady myself.
“Hey, I've got you,” Erik murmurs, strong arms wrapping around me from behind. He turns me gently in the chair until I'm facing him, then pulls me against his chest.
I melt into his embrace, surprised by how natural it feels to be held by him. His heartbeat is strong under my ear, his warmth enveloping me like a shield against the world. The slight tremors in my body begin to subside as he runs a hand slowly up and down my spine.
“I've never seen anyone work that fast,” he murmurs into my hair, his breath warm against my scalp.
I press my face against his chest, inhaling his scent—sandalwood and something uniquely him. “I've never had anyone trust me like that,” I admit quietly. “Not with something so important.”
The weight of what just happened crashes over me. Erik had given me access to everything—the security of his family's compound. He'd placed it all in my hands without hesitation.
“I could have used that access to escape,” I say quietly, needing him to understand what this means. I could have betrayed him. Could have sent messages out. It could have exposed everything.
“I know,” he replies, his arms tightening around me. “But you didn't.”
We stay like that, holding each other in the aftermath of danger. My breathing synchronizes with his, our bodies fitting together as if designed for this purpose. For the first time since I was brought here, I feel completely safe.
The vibration of his phone breaks our moment. Erik shifts slightly to retrieve it from his pocket, still keeping one arm around me. I watch his face as he reads the message and see something dark pass over his features—a shadow that transforms his expression from tender to troubled in an instant.
“What's wrong?” I ask, suddenly cold despite his nearness.
“Nothing,” he says, but his eyes won't meet mine as he tucks the phone away.
When he pulls me back into his arms, there's a desperation in his embrace that wasn't there before.
His hands press more firmly against my back, his face buried deeper in my hair.
He holds me like a man preparing to lose something precious, and though I don't know what changed in those few seconds, I feel the difference in every point where his body touches mine.