Chapter 9 Alexi
ALEXI
The error message mocks me from three different screens.
Access Denied.
Connection Refused.
Number Disconnected.
I’ve been trying to breach Iris’s systems for six hours. Six. Fucking. Hours.
Nothing works.
She’s burned every entry point I had. Changed every password. Scrambled her digital signature so thoroughly I can’t even find her shadow on the dark web.
The Phantom is a ghost again.
My coffee’s gone cold. Energy drink cans litter the floor around my chair. Code scrolls across monitors in endless loops, searching for cracks that don’t exist.
She’s good. Better than good.
And I hate it.
No—I’m obsessed with it.
My fingers fly across the keyboard, trying another approach. Maybe if I route through the MIT servers, use the old backdoor I installed freshman year—
Access Denied.
“Fucking hell.” I slam my fist on the desk. The monitors shake.
This isn’t how it works. I don’t get locked out. I’m the one who does the locking. The hunting. The controlling.
But Iris has cut me off completely. No webcam feed. No phone tap. No way inside her beautiful, paranoid systems.
She’s terrified. I saw it in her eyes right before she shut down—that moment of clarity when she realized what we’d done. What she’d let me see.
The fear turns me on more than it should.
I pull up the file I created on her. Home address. Third-floor apartment. One roommate—Maya Chen, graphic designer, no criminal record.
My brothers handle problems face-to-face. Break bones, fire bullets, leave bodies in the harbor.
I’ve never needed to. Why get my hands dirty when I can destroy someone from behind a screen?
But Iris has forced a different play.
I grab my jacket, checking the Glock holstered at my side out of habit. Not that I plan to use it. This isn’t that kind of visit.
This is reconnaissance. Old-school surveillance.
The thought makes me smile despite my frustration.
She’s made me adapt. Changed the rules of engagement.
No one’s done that before.
The drive to Commonwealth Avenue takes twenty minutes. Normally, I’d have surveillance up before making a move like this, but Iris has stripped that option away.
So here I am. Parked across the street from 1247 Commonwealth Avenue in a blacked-out Tesla, staring at a brick building like some stalker.
Which, technically, I suppose I am.
Unit 4 B. Third floor. Corner apartment with a fire escape—I memorized the building schematics hours ago. Her windows face the street, curtains drawn tight.
Smart girl.
But not smart enough to disappear completely.
I tap my fingers against the steering wheel, antsy without a keyboard under my hands. This waiting game isn’t my style. I prefer instant gratification, instant access, instant control.
Physical surveillance is Dmitri’s territory. Or Erik’s. They have the patience for stakeouts and tailing marks through the city.
I have servers, satellites, and code that do the watching for me.
Except Iris has burned all of that.
A jogger passes. Then a woman is walking two dogs. The neighborhood’s quiet for a Saturday afternoon—upscale enough to afford security cameras, which I’ve already looped. No one will notice my car sitting here.
My phone vibrates. Nikolai.
Where the fuck are you?
I ignore it. He wants me at a meeting about expanding our crypto operations. Boring. Predictable.
This is so much better.
Movement catches my eye. The building’s front door opens.
My pulse kicks up.
But it’s just some college kid with a skateboard. He heads east, oblivious.
I settle back, watching Iris’s windows. The curtains haven’t moved. No shadows, no light changes.
She could be sleeping. Or coding. Or planning her next move against our systems.
Or she could be as wired as I am, knowing I won’t let this go.
The thought makes me grin.
She’s probably running scenarios right now—All that brilliant paranoia focused on me.
It’s intoxicating.
Another twenty minutes crawl by. Students drift past. A delivery truck blocks my view for three agonizing minutes before moving on.
Still nothing from 4 B.
My leg bounces. I need to move, to do something. Sitting here feels wrong, passive.
Then the front door opens again.
And there she is.
Iris Mitchell steps onto the sidewalk, laptop bag slung over her shoulder.
My chance.
I slip out of the Tesla. She heads west, toward the café district. Quick steps, shoulders tight.
Already nervous.
Good.
I fall into step fifty feet behind her, hands in my jacket pockets. Casual. Just another guy on the street. I don’t break stride, don’t look directly at her. Let my gaze slide past like she’s not worth noticing.
But her pace increases.
She glances over her shoulder, proving she knows.
Somehow, she fucking knows.
The paranoia I saw in her code translates perfectly to real life. She checks reflections in car windows, storefronts. Her fingers dig into her laptop bag strap.
I close the distance. Forty feet. Thirty.
When she glances back over her shoulder for longer, our eyes meet for a fraction of a second.
Recognition flares across her face.
Then fear.
And then, her footsteps speed up into a near-run and she cuts left down a narrow side street. Her laptop bag bounces against her hip.
Perfect.
I match her speed, herding her away from the crowds. She glances back, sees me gaining, and darts right into an alleyway between two brownstones.
Dead end. Her footsteps halt and she just stands there for a moment before, spinning to face me and backing into the brick wall. Her hand plunges into her bag.
I’m faster.
My fingers close around her wrist as she pulls the pepper spray. One sharp twist and it clatters to the pavement. I kick it away, then press my body against hers, pinning her to the wall.
“Hello, Iris.”
Iris is breathing hard, eyes wide. This close, I can see the tech-enhanced contacts she wears, the faint code tattoo peeking from her collar.
“Get off me.” Her voice shakes despite the defiance.
“Not yet.” I bracket her head with my hands, caging her in. “You’ve been avoiding me.”
“You’re insane.”
“Says the woman who came as she watched me jerk off.” I lean in, lips brushing her ear. “Did you touch yourself again after you shut me out?”
She shoves at my chest. Useless. I’m stronger than I look.
“I could scream.”
“You won’t.” My hand slides down her side, feeling her tremble. “Because you want me to catch you.”
“You don’t know anything about me.”
I laugh against her throat. “I know everything, detka. Your systems, your secrets, your fantasies.” My fingers find her hip, squeeze. “And now I know how you feel pressed against a wall.”
“Alexi.”
My name on her lips hits hard.
I press forward, letting her feel exactly what she does to me. My cock strains against my jeans, thick and hard, digging into her stomach. No hiding it. No pretending this is just about the game.
She moans. Soft. Almost inaudible.
But I catch it.
“Feel that?” I grind against her, watching her pupils dilate. “That’s what you’ve done to me. What you keep doing every time you breach my systems, leave your fucking signature like you’re marking territory on me.”
Her breath hitches. Hands flatten against my chest, but she’s not pushing anymore.
“I’m never going to stop hunting you.” I slide one hand up her throat, thumb resting against her pulse. It hammers under my touch. “Not until I get what I want.”
“What you—” She swallows. “What do you want?”
“That perfect cunt of yours.” I tighten my grip slightly, feel her gasp. “Wrapped around my cock. All night. All fucking day.” My hips rock forward again, making sure she understands. “Every single time I catch you trying to hack me, I’m going to be right here. Right fucking here.”
Her eyes flutter closed.
“Look at me.”
They snap open. Ice blue, dilated with fear and something else entirely.
“You can run. Change your passwords, burn your systems, disappear into whatever digital hole you crawl into.” I lean in until our lips almost touch. “But I’ll find you. Every. Single. Time.” Each word is punctuated with another grind of my hips. “And when I do, I’m going to take what’s mine.”
“I’m not—” Her voice breaks. “Not yours.”
“Yes, you are.” My hand slides from her throat to her jaw, forcing her to hold my gaze. “You became mine the second you let me watch you come. The second you looked into that camera and showed me everything.”
I pull back just enough to see her face properly. The fear’s still there, but underneath it—curiosity. Need.
“Go on a date with me.”
She blinks. “What?”
“Tomorrow night. I’ll pick you up at eight. We get dinner like normal fucking people instead of stalking each other through fiber optic cables.”
Her laugh comes out sharp, disbelieving. “You’re insane.”
“Don’t care.” I release her jaw but keep my body pressed against hers, pinning her to the brick. “Eight o’clock. Wear something nice.”
“I’m not going anywhere with you.”
“Yes, you are.” My hand slides down to her hip, thumb tracing small circles through her jeans. “Because you’re as obsessed with me as I am with you. Because you’ve been thinking about our video sex just as much as I have.”
Her breath catches.
“And because if you don’t show, I’ll be in your apartment by 8:01.” I lean in, lips brushing her ear. “Pounding you into your mattress instead, skip the formalities and go straight to fucking dessert.”
“That’s—”
“What you’ve been doing to me for months.” I pull back, meet her eyes. “Turnabout, detka.”
She stares at me. Breathing hard. Fighting herself.
“One date,” I say. “Dinner. Conversation. You can even bring that pepper spray if it makes you feel better.”
“And if I say no?”
I grin. “Then I keep showing up. Keep finding you. Keep pressing you against walls until you admit what we both already know.”
Her jaw tightens. “You’re a stalker.”
“You hacked my financial servers and watched me through my webcam.” I tilt my head. “Who’s really stalking who here?”
Silence stretches between us. Her pulse hammers against my chest—or maybe that’s mine. Hard to tell where I end and she begins right now.
“Fine.” The word comes out strangled. “One date.”
Triumph surges through me. “Smart girl.”
“But if you try anything—”
“I’ll pick you up at eight.” I step back, giving her space. Cool air rushes between us. “1247 Commonwealth Avenue, Unit 4 B. I’ll even bring flowers.”
She straightens, tugging her laptop bag higher on her shoulder. “I hate you.”
“No, you don’t.” I retrieve her pepper spray from the pavement, hand it back. “You just hate that you don’t.”