Page 21 of The Hacker (Dominion Hall #5)

ELIAS

V ivi’s sobs cut me open. Each one a blade, slashing something raw in my chest.

She was crumpled on the boutique’s velvet couch. Silk gown pooling like moonlight around her trembling frame. Hands pressed to her face, hiding the grief spilling out.

I knelt before her. Hand on her knee. Steady but helpless. Shock rooted me.

This wasn’t Vivi. Not the woman who’d fucked me like she defied death. Who climbed bridges, laughed at danger.

This was a girl. Broken. Exposed. Her fire doused.

It lit something in me. A fierce, possessive need. Not to fuck her, but to hold her together.

My demon was stunned. Its hunger gone. Replaced by a primal urge to shield her.

The boutique’s opulence mocked us. Designer racks, champagne flutes, strawberries on marble. Hollow against her tears.

I’d thought I could give her everything. But this—her unraveling—was uncharted territory.

I slid onto the couch. Careful not to crowd her. Hand still on her knee, thumb brushing slow circles.

Her sobs slowed. She stayed curled tight. A fortress of grief.

“Vivi,” I said, voice low, rough. Barely a whisper.

She didn’t move. Didn’t look at me. Breath hitching.

The demon was quiet. I didn’t know what to do. So I did the only thing I could.

I wrapped my arms around her. Pulled her close, her body small against mine.

She didn’t resist. Just sank into me. Her face pressed to my chest, tears soaking my shirt.

I held her. Tight. Like I could absorb her pain. Make her feel safe.

Her body shook. Silent now, but heavy. I didn’t let go.

Minutes passed. Maybe hours. Time blurred in the warmth of her against me.

Her breathing steadied. Slow, ragged, but calmer. Still, I held her.

Possessiveness burned. Not for her body, but her soul. I wanted to protect her. From the world. From herself.

The boutique’s glow faded. Harbor lights twinkled outside, indifferent to her pain.

I pressed my lips to her hair. Breathed her in.

She stirred. Shifted slightly. Her voice came, soft, cracked. “You don’t have to do this.”

“Yes, I do,” I said, voice rough. “You’re mine, Red. All of you.”

She didn’t answer. Just stayed pressed to me, her hand curling into my shirt.

Finally, she spoke. Voice barely above a whisper. “My family … we were always saving.”

I listened. Held her tighter. Let her words spill.

“Skimping was religion,” she said. “Mom clipped coupons like they were scripture.”

Her voice trembled. “We reused foil. Patched jeans. Watered down apple juice.”

I knew that life. Echoes from my own childhood. Before the billions.

“Sullivan’s Island wasn’t always rich,” I said, low. “Dad worked odd jobs. We ate what we caught.”

She nodded against me. “Mom painted. Never sold. Said it was for her saints.” Her laugh was bitter. “Emmaline learned to budget before she could read.”

I brushed a curl from her face. “You learned to survive.”

“More than that,” she said. “I learned to want. And to know I couldn’t have.”

Her words hit hard. I knew that hunger. The ache of reaching for more.

“We had hand-me-downs,” I said. “Shared one bike. Fought over who got the flat tire.” She lifted her head. Eyes red, but steady. “You get it.”

“Yeah,” I said. “I do.”

She leaned back. Still in my arms. “Ballet was my way out. Not just surviving.” Her voice softened. “Every pirouette was a fuck-you to poverty.”

I tightened my grip. “You made it beautiful.”

She snorted, soft. “Beautiful’s expensive. Shoes, classes, leotards. I worked doubles.”

I knew that grind. “I fixed radios for cash. Anything to keep us afloat.”

Her eyes met mine. A flicker of understanding. Shared scars.

“Mom never came to my shows,” she said. “Said she couldn’t afford the gas.”

My chest ached. “Dad came to one of my games. Fell asleep in the stands.”

She laughed, small, real. “At least he showed.”

“Yeah,” I said. “Until he didn’t.”

Her hand found mine. Fingers lacing. “Your mom left. Mine stayed but … wasn’t there.”

I nodded. The weight of it heavy. Our pasts mirrored, jagged and sharp.

“Emmaline was the fixer,” she said. “Kept Mom fed, bills paid. I was the dreamer.”

I brushed my thumb over her knuckles. “You’re more than that.”

She looked away. “Dreamers don’t last. They break.”

“You’re not broken,” I said, voice firm. “You’re fire.”

Her eyes flickered. Doubt, but something else. Hope, maybe.

“I worked for everything,” she said. “Every costume, every class. Nothing was free.”

I pulled her closer. “I know.”

“Even love,” she whispered. “I had to earn that, too.”

The words gutted me. I’d felt that. Love as a transaction, always out of reach.

“Not with me,” I said, voice rough. “You don’t earn it. It’s yours.”

She looked at me. Eyes wide, searching. Like she wanted to believe but couldn’t.

“My dad’s billions,” I said, slow, deliberate. “They’re not just mine. They’re ours.”

Her breath caught. A small sound, but heavy.

“My riches are your riches,” I said. “You’ll never have to skimp again.” I cupped her face. Held her gaze. “No more patched jeans. No more lentils … unless you still like them.”

Her lips parted. Eyes glistening, not with tears now, but something brighter.

“You don’t have to worry,” I said. “Not about money. Not about surviving.” I leaned in. Forehead to hers. “You’re mine, Red. I’ve got you.”

She didn’t speak. Just looked at me. And there it was—a flicker in her eyes.

Hope. Small, fragile, but real.

It was enough. A spark I’d fan into a flame.

My job now was to prove it. To show her she could have more than survival.

I held her tighter. Arms wrapping her fully, pulling her into my lap.

She sank against me. Body soft, pliant. Her head on my shoulder. We stayed like that. Silent. The boutique’s glow dimming, harbor lights twinkling outside. Her breathing slowed. Steady now, but fragile. I didn’t let go.

Holding her was everything.

Possessiveness burned. Not for her body, but her heart. I wanted her safe. Whole.

I thought of tomorrow. Her in my bed, curls on my pillow, laugh filling the air.

I’d build her a world where she didn’t have to fight for every scrap. Where she could want, and have, without fear.

Her hand rested on my chest. Fingers curling into my shirt.

I kissed her hair. Soft, a vow. “I’ve got you,” I whispered again.

She didn’t answer. Didn’t need to. That flicker of hope in her eyes said enough.

It was my job to make it real. To prove she could trust me, trust us.

The demon was quiet. Not gone, but content. For now, this was enough. Vivi was mine. And I’d burn the world to keep her whole.