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ELIAS
Ileaned back in the creaky office chair, the fluorescent lights of the Crescent Ballet’s cramped office buzzing like a swarm of pissed-off wasps. My fingers hovered over the keyboard, the screen’s glow casting shadows across my knuckles.
The company’s network was a goddamn sieve—holes so wide a script kiddie with a YouTube tutorial could’ve waltzed through. Whoever had breached it wasn’t even trying that hard.
That’s what pissed me off most. Sloppy work. No respect for the craft.
Teresa Sneed, the ballet’s office manager, hovered behind me, her coffee-stained blouse radiating nervous energy.
She’d called me, almost begging, her voice tight with panic over the phone two days ago.Phishing scheme, she’d said.Some glitch. I’d almost laughed. A glitch didn’t scrape financials or sniff around for guest lists. This was deliberate, surgical, and it was escalating fast.
I hadn’t owed her a favor, despite what I’d told Vivi. That was just me being polite, smoothing the edges of a truth too messy to unpack in casual conversation.
Teresa and I had a history—a weekend fling years back, all heat and no substance. It fizzled as quickly as it sparked, but we’d stayed friendly enough. Distant, sure, but friendly.
When she called, I’d been surprised, maybe even a little flattered. A job like this? A chance to flex my skills, hunt a hacker, maybe send another asshole to the feds—or worse? Hell, it was practically a vacation.
But now, as I dug into the network’s logs, my jaw tightened. This wasn’t just a phishing scam. The intruders were after everything—benefactor records, financials, guest lists. And then, the thing that made my blood run cold: the dancers’ personal data. Names. Addresses. Phone numbers. The kind of shit that could turn a casual hack into a fucking nightmare.
Vivi stood behind me, too close, her presence like a live wire sparking against my skin. I could smell her—sweat, sharp and human, mixed with something floral, maybe jasmine. It was intoxicating in a way that made my gut twist.
I didn’t like it.
Didn’t like how it stirred something in me, an old itch I’d sworn I’d never scratch again. Longing. Hunger. The kind of shit that made a man lose focus, make mistakes.
I’d buried that part of me years ago, after the last time I let someone get too close. Promises were made to be kept, not broken. But fuck, she was testing me without even trying.
“Elias,” Teresa said, her voice cutting through the hum of the ancient desktop. “What’s happening? Can you fix it?”
I didn’t look up, my fingers flying across the keys as I traced the intruders’ path.
“They’re scraping everything,” I said, my tone clipped, professional. “Benefactors’ data—bank accounts, donation histories. Financials for the company. Guest lists for the gala next month. And …” I hesitated, my eyes narrowing at thescreen. “They’re pulling the dancers’ personal info. Names, addresses, the works.”
Vivi sucked in a breath, and I felt her shift closer, her arm brushing the back of my chair. My spine stiffened, but I kept my eyes on the code. Focus, Dane. Focus.
“Why the dancers?” Vivi asked, her voice low, edged with something sharp. Not fear—anger, maybe.
Defiance.
It suited her, that fire. Matched the red curls spilling loose from her bun, the way her green eyes had sparked when she’d teased me about skydiving.
I didn’t answer right away. Couldn’t. Because a part of me—a stupid, irrational part—wondered ifshewas the reason this felt personal. Her name was in that database. Her address. The thought of some faceless creep out there, hunting her, knowing where she lived …
My hands froze for a split second before I forced them to move again.
“Could be leverage,” I said finally, my voice colder than I meant it to be. “Blackmail. Or worse. Doesn’t matter why. They’re in, and they’re not being subtle.”
Teresa’s hands twisted together, her knuckles white. “Can you stop them?”
I snorted, already deep in the system’s guts. “Already am.”
My fingers danced, isolating the intruders’ connection, severing their access with a few precise commands.
They were good—not great, but good. They’d used a VPN, bounced their signal through dozens of servers, but I’d seen better.
I slipped a pack of tracers into their stream, a little gift they wouldn’t notice until it was too late. My spiders, as I called them—custom scripts I’d built over years of chasing assholes likethis—were already crawling through their system, hunting for a foothold. I’d find them. And when I did, I’d handle it my way.
Vivi leaned in, her breath warm against my shoulder as she peered at the screen. “What’s that?” she asked, pointing at the lines of code flickering by.