Chapter 7 Aleksei
ALEKSEI
“What am I looking at?” Yuri asks, squinting at the waveform on his oversized monitor, fingers hovering over the keyboard.
“I told you,” I say, unable to keep the impatience from my voice. “I need to find more of that voice.”
He swivels, raising an eyebrow. “Where is this from, anyway?”
I don’t answer. Just hold his gaze, cold and flat, until he looks away.
Yuri clears his throat, nervous now. “Never mind. I don’t need to know all the details.”
I slam my palm on the edge of his desk. “Find the source, Yuri. Tracks, recordings, anything that exists on the internet.”
Yuri gulps, then nods, hands already flying over the keys.
“Right, right. Okay. It’s, uh, usually called audio fingerprinting.
I’ll extract the voice signature, cross-check against public and—well, less public—databases.
Sometimes metadata in the file can point to a studio, user account, even IP history… ”
He’s muttering half to himself as windows and code scroll by in dizzying columns. He keeps at it, but I’m already restless, pacing behind him, my skin prickling with urgency.
I can hear her in my mind—Zatanna, though he doesn’t know her name. That voice, dark and soft, wrapping around every frayed nerve. I need more. I have to hear more. It’s not enough, not nearly enough, to just remember.
Yuri glances back, unease in his eyes, but I don’t say a word. I don’t need to explain myself. I’m the boss. He knows better than to ask again.
My obsession is an ache now, humming in my blood. It’s not just curiosity anymore. It’s hunger. I want to unravel every secret she’s ever whispered into a microphone. I want to know if that voice is only for strangers, or if she’d ever use it for me.
Yuri mutters to himself, code and waveforms reflecting in his glasses. “Why does this sound so familiar…?”
“Focus,” I snap, my voice enough to shut him up.
Yuri pauses, a frown creasing his brow. He clicks, then listens. The speakers fill with the sound of her again—her, Zatanna, though he doesn’t know her name. That velvet-dark, achingly honest voice.
My voice. Mine.
The memory of her voice threads through my thoughts, wrapping tighter every time I try to push it away.
I want to hear her say something else—anything else.
I want to know if she ever loses control, if she ever sounds the way she did in that recording, or if I could make her sound that way in person.
I shouldn’t want this. It’s dangerous. Stupid. She’s my employee, not a toy, not a fantasy. And yet, my thoughts circle her like a wolf scenting blood. I want her voice. I want her secrets. I want to possess the pieces of her no one else knows exist.
Yuri keeps muttering, a nervous tic. He’s piecing together bits of metadata, cross-referencing usernames and audio tags, scraping the deep corners of the web for any trace of her. He doesn’t dare look back at me now.
I know I’m pushing the edge, maybe even breaking it. But I don’t care.
All I want is more. More of her voice. More of her.
And I won’t stop until I have it.
Yuri’s fingers finally freeze on the keyboard. He leans in, squinting at the results. “Got it,” he mutters, almost to himself. “It’s from a site called Velvet After Dark. Audio erotica, looks like. All user submissions, but some have premium voice actors, regular uploads…”
He scrolls, reading off the page. “There’s a whole profile here—‘NightWhisperZ.’ A lot of stories. ‘Obey the Night,’ ‘Under His Desk,’ ‘Morning Heat,’ ‘Locked Door Games.’ Jesus, there’s hundreds of them.”
I step closer, trying to steady my breath as I scan the list. “Are you sure this is it?”
“Positive,” Yuri says with a smirk. “You know me, my work isn’t sloppy. Same voice, different scripts—”
“Out,” I interrupt, voice like a blade.
“Huh?” he says.
“Get out, your job is done,” I say.
He glances at me, measuring, then nods. “Yeah. Of course.” He sends the profile to my private email and grabs his things, not looking back. He knows better than to linger—everyone does.
I wait for the door to close before I move.
No one’s going to say a word. Not to anyone.
I made sure of that—every NDA at this company is airtight, iron-clad.
I’ve protected my secrets from the inside out, since the day I took control.
Even Zatanna had to sign, first thing, her nervous signature scrawled at the bottom of the page.
I open the link. Her page blooms across my monitor with dozens of stories, hundreds of hours, her voice waiting for me, only me.
My obsession just found new fuel.
From the glass wall of my office, I watch her.
Zatanna sits at her desk, shoulders hunched, quietly flipping through a pile of paperwork one of the junior analysts dumped on her. She’s focused, frowning a little, unaware that I’m staring. Everyone else in the room moves past her like she’s invisible.
But to me, she might as well be the only thing in the building.
What the fuck has gotten into me? I rub my jaw, restless, feeling her presence like static on my skin. I could have given her the assignment—my real reason for hiring her—days ago. I should have. But every time I start to call her in, the words stick. It’s easier to watch. To want.
Two days. She’s been here two days and already I’m losing time, losing ground.
The deadline hangs over my head, closer every day, and I still haven’t begun what I promised.
I tell myself I’m being careful, methodical.
The truth is simpler: I can’t bring myself to consider anyone else, not with her here.
By the time I leave the office, night has swallowed Manhattan. My apartment feels colder than usual, every window reflecting city lights and my own tight, unsmiling face. I find my mother in the kitchen, preparing tea the way she always does when she’s worried.
She glances up. “You are late, Alyosha. You look… distracted.”
“I’m fine,” I say, a little too quick, shedding my coat and setting my briefcase by the door.
She narrows her eyes, but lets it go. “Sit. I made soup.”
I join her at the small table, my mind still ten blocks away. She asks about the business, the weather, my health. I answer without hearing myself.
But I can’t stop thinking about Zatanna, about her careful hands, the shy way she tucks her hair behind her ear, the secrets in her voice. It’s like a fever I can’t break.
I know I’m running out of time.
But for the first time in years, I want to do nothing but wait.
She places a bowl of soup in front of me, her hands gentle, movements practiced. The kitchen is warm, filled with the quiet smells of dill and potatoes and home. I should feel comforted, but the old tightness in my chest never leaves.
She sits across from me, silent for a while, then says softly, “You should speak to your father, Alyosha. He asks about you.”
I stiffen, pushing my spoon around the bowl. “There’s nothing to say to him. He made his choices.”
She sighs, a line of worry creasing her brow. “He’s still your father.”
I don’t reply.
She tries again, reaching for hope. “Maybe your grandfather’s will… Maybe it will bring something good to you, Alyosha. Perhaps you’ll find happiness. A wife, a family. It doesn’t always have to be cold and hard.”
I shake my head, the old bitterness rising. “Don’t wish for things that can’t be, Mama. I’ll do what’s needed. I’ll produce an heir. That’s all anyone wants from me. Love doesn’t belong in my world.”
She looks hurt, her mouth pressed in a sad line. “You think that’s all life is? Duty and loneliness?”
I look at her, a sharp edge to my voice I don’t bother to dull. “How does Father feel about you?”
She doesn’t answer. She looks away, her hand tightening on the edge of the table, her eyes shining with old disappointments she never speaks aloud.
I regret the words instantly, but I don’t take them back.
I finish my soup in silence, the gulf between us stretching wider than ever.
Love is for other men. Not for me.