Page 17 of All The Darkest Truths (Second Sons Duet #2)

ALEX

I roll my shoulders and crack my neck, trying to loosen the tension.

My fingers hover above the keyboard, cramping slightly from hours of continuous typing. My desk is littered with empty energy drink cans and half-eaten protein bars. The blue light from my screens casts an eerie glow across my workspace.

Ricky's phone sits mockingly beside me, plugged into one of my computers. Locked. Secured. A goddamn fortress of digital protection that shouldn't be this difficult to crack. But whoever set up his security protocols knew what they were doing, and I’d like to meet them.

“Come on, you piece of shit,” I mutter, typing in another algorithm.

Access Denied flashes mockingly on my screen.

I slam my fist down next to my keyboard.

If Ricky was still alive, I'd beat the password out of him. Slowly. With a pickaxe and a very tiny hammer. One fucking tink at a time. I’ve cracked secret government military installations with more ease than Ricky’s phone.

A cheap cell phone shouldn’t be this hard.

Hacking cell phones were what I cut my teeth on, which begs the question, why is this so fucking hard?

I take another swig of lukewarm coffee and try a different approach, my mind racing through possibilities. If I can get into this phone, it might lead us to The Collector, and then to Vesper’s brother.

Access Denied .

“Fuck this,” I mutter, standing up and stretching my legs. I need a new angle. Something personal.

I glance over at my third monitor, where photos of Ricky's corpse cycle through various recognition algorithms. Oz and I were thorough—fingerprints, facial structure, even the partial tattoo on his forearm.

The programs have been churning for hours now, cross-referencing every criminal and federal database I've hacked into over the years.

Nothing. Absolutely fucking nothing.

“Who the hell are you?”

It doesn't make sense. Everyone leaves digital footprints—especially criminals.

Even the careful ones slip up somewhere.

But according to every database I've run him through, Richard "Ricky" Novak doesn't exist. No criminal record.

No parking tickets. No tax returns. Not even a fucking library card.

There are only two possibilities. Either Ricky was some kind of choir boy who somehow fell into information brokering without ever getting caught, or he's someone else entirely.

The first is laughable, the second is more probably.

Someone whose identity is protected at levels even my software struggles to penetrate.

Deep cover. Government maybe. Or worse. A plant by The Collector.

A notification pings on my third monitor—the scan has expanded to international databases. Still nothing. It's like Ricky was born yesterday and died today with nothing in between.

“God fucking dammit,” I snarl. The last time my information pool was this dry, I was ten years old trying to hack into my sister’s Barbie laptop. This isn't how I operate. I always find something.

I run a high-level encryption decoder, something I coded myself after a particularly nasty job in Singapore last year. If this doesn't work, I'm going to need to physically dismantle the phone's hardware and extract the data directly—messy, time-consuming, and risky.

“Come on, come on...” I mutter, watching the progress bar crawl forward.

ERROR: SECURITY PROTOCOL ACTIVATED .

The phone's screen flashes once, then goes completely dead. A failsafe. Whoever designed this security system just initiated a self-destruct sequence for the data.

“Son of a bitch!” I slam my palm against the desk so hard my monitors shake. I'm about to throw the useless phone across the room when I hear it—a soft click from somewhere in the apartment.

My body freezes, senses immediately on high alert. That wasn't the building settling. That was a door.

My hand moves instinctively to the Glock nestled under my desk, fingers wrapping around the familiar grip as I silently push back my chair. With my free hand, I tap three keys in quick succession, and my main monitor switches to a grid of security feeds I installed throughout the apartment.

I scan each camera view methodically, my breathing shallow and controlled.

Front door alarms—still locked, no signs of tampering.

Window monitors—still sealed after I went through the apartment and secured them after everyone went to bed.

Fire escape—empty. The hallway outside shows nothing but silence.

No movement anywhere, which doesn't make sense. I heard something.

I flick through each room's cameras individually. Kitchen—clear, just the dim light from the refrigerator illuminating empty countertops. Living room—nothing but furniture. Hallway—empty.

I know I fucking heard a door. Could it be…?

My finger hovers over the last set—the bedroom cameras. The ones I installed after Vesper moved in with us, a precaution I never mentioned to her or the guys. A contingency plan. A safeguard I promised myself I'd only use if someone's life depended on it.

Privacy is sacred in our arrangement. I know that. But so is security.

I hesitate, guilt and necessity warring within me as I stare at the blacked-out icon. Fuck it. If someone is in the apartment, all bets are off.

I click the camera link, and Talon’s bedroom pops up on the screen.

He’s sprawled face-down across the mattress, one arm hanging off the edge, the other shoved under his pillow. The sheets are twisted around his waist, and he’s snoring like he’s trying to shake the walls. Classic Talon—man could sleep through the apocalypse.

I switch to Oz’s room next, half expecting to catch him curled up with a book like the night owl he is.

Empty.

My pulse stutters as I toggle over to Zaire’s camera. His room’s just as vacant. Clothes everywhere, bed a mess—typical Z. But no sign of him either.

“Shit,” I mutter, fingers tightening around the gun. That only leaves one place—Vesper’s. If someone’s after her…

I don’t hesitate. I click into her room’s camera.

The bed comes into view—and she’s not alone. Z stands near the door, while Vesper and Oz are on the bed. His hand is…

Oh fuck.

I move to close the window, but my finger stalls above the button. I should look away. I should . But I don’t.

Oz's hand disappears inside her sleep shorts, and her back arches off the mattress. Her beautiful tits on full fucking display. Oz leans down, sucking one into his mouth. My throat goes dry as I watch her bite her lower lip, clearly trying to stay quiet.

This is wrong. I'm violating something sacred between them. But my body betrays me, rooted to the spot.

“Fuck.” I should be ashamed. I am ashamed.

But I can't tear myself away from the screen.

I notice the small speaker icon next to the video feed.

My finger hovers over it, the rational part of my brain screaming to shut this down.

But then Vesper's back arches higher, her lips parting, and before I can stop myself, I click.

Her moan fills my room, soft and desperate, the sound so fucking beautiful it makes my cock instantly hard in my sweatpants. My breathing turns shallow as I watch her come undone, her body trembling as Oz works his fingers against her.

“Shit,” I hiss, adjusting myself painfully.

This could have been me tonight. Just hours ago, she was in my room, looking up at me with those green eyes, practically begging me to touch her. And what did I do? I sent her away. Told her she needed be fully present, mind and body, before I fuck her.

Like a goddamn saint. Or an idiot. Definitely an idiot.

I watch as Oz pulls back. The unspoken communication between them sends a jolt straight to my groin. Z pushes off from the doorframe in one fluid motion, stalking toward the bed.

Oz slides away, helping Vesper shimmy out of those tiny sleep shorts. My breath catches as the soft glow of the bedroom light reveals every inch of her. Absolutely fucking breathtaking.

I shouldn't be watching this. I’ve never claimed to have morality, but fuck, I know this wrong. My hand is already sliding beneath my waistband, wrapping around my painfully hard cock as Z pushes forward, entering her in one slow, deliberate thrust.

“Fuck,” I hiss, matching my strokes to his rhythm, imagining how she must feel—tight, wet. The way her back arches off the bed, the way her fingers dig into Z's skin hard enough to leave marks—it's the most beautiful torture I've ever witnessed.

“Look at me,” Z’s voice commands Vesper through the speakers, one hand sliding up to grip her jaw. “I want to see your eyes when you come on my cock.”

I bite my lip hard enough to taste blood, trying to ground myself as my hand moves faster. The shame burns hot in my chest, but the arousal burning in my veins is stronger.

Then I see it—Vesper looking directly at the camera hidden in the corner of her room. For one heart-stopping moment, I think she's caught me, that somehow she knows I'm watching. But her mind drifts away, lost again in the sensations Z is creating.

“She’s close.” I hear Oscar declare. Her and I both. My strokes quicken, pressure building at the base of my spine as Z increases his pace, driving into her with a force that makes her gasp.

Vesper's body tenses as she comes undone. The sound that escapes her lips—half moan, half cry—pushes me over the edge. Release hits me like a freight train, my vision blurring as I bite down on my fist to stay silent.

As the haze clears, reality crashes back.

“What the fuck am I doing?”

“I could ask you the same thing,” a voice says directly to my left.

I nearly jump out of my fucking skin, spinning around with my gun raised before my brain can process who spoke. Hand still on my hard cock.

Talon stands in my doorway, leaning against the frame with his arms crossed. His attention shifts from my face to the monitor and back again, his expression unreadable in the blue glow of my screens.