Page 3 of The Hacker (Dominion Hall #5)

VIVIENNE

D ragging a kayak through my studio apartment wasn’t exactly a glamorous look, but it was the reality of living above Liquid Courage.

The air downstairs always smelled like tequila, pineapple syrup, and bad decisions, but I loved it.

It was home.

I wrestled the kayak out the door, bumping the frame, the stairs, probably a few ghosts.

Down below, a few of the regulars spilled onto the sidewalk, plastic souvenir cups in hand, singing some off-key song about heartbreak and slushies.

One of them—Big Mike, a bearded guy who lived on rum punch and charm—saw me and laughed.

“Where you headed, Vivi?” he called.

“Night cruise,” I said, struggling to get the kayak onto my shoulder.

“Don’t drown! I ain’t sober enough to save you!”

I blew him a kiss and dumped the kayak into the back of my dented SUV.

The harbor was only a few minutes away, and the drive was a breeze with the windows down and the salt air tangling in my curls.

I found Jessa waiting at the launch, spinning a Red Bull can on one finger like a circus act.

Her long dark braid whipped around in the breeze, her board shorts clinging to her legs.

Jessa was the kind of girl who thought "danger" was just another word for "good story."

“About damn time!” she shouted as I pulled up.

“I had to evict my kayak from my living room!” I called back, laughing.

“You and that bar apartment,” she said, shaking her head. “One day they’re gonna find you crushed under a kayak and three frozen margaritas.”

“Better than dying bored,” I said as we shoved our kayaks into the water.

The night wrapped around us thick and sweet, heavy with humidity and the low hum of music from downtown. The moon hung fat and golden over the water, slicing silver ribbons across the surface.

Technically, paddling out into Charleston Harbor after dark wasn’t the smartest thing two women could do.

The harbor wasn’t just pretty lights and tourist sailboats—it was a working port, and even at night, tugs and cargo ships cut through the water like silent giants. Their massive wakes could flip a kayak in seconds if you weren’t careful.

Not to mention the currents—strong, unpredictable, twisting through the inlets and around the barrier islands like invisible hands trying to drag you under.

And then there was the wildlife. Bull sharks liked these waters. So did the occasional rogue alligator that wandered too far south from the rivers.

We weren’t stupid. We wore life jackets, carried waterproof flashlights, kept a weather eye out.

But still.

Most sane people wouldn’t risk it.

That was the thing, though.

I wasn’t sane—not in the way Charleston’s society girls were sane, clutching their pearls and their good reputations.

I was born in the backstreets of New Orleans, raised on jazz and hurricanes—the storm kind and the cocktail kind.

Thrill-seeking wasn’t a hobby for me. It was stitched into my bones.

Every leap, every spin, every reckless choice—skydiving, motorbiking, night kayaking through a shark-infested harbor—it all made me feel alive in a way nothing else could touch.

Dance gave me discipline. But adrenaline? That gave me freedom.

Luckily, I had friends like Jessa who felt the same way.

We paddled into the harbor, the city disappearing behind us.

“All right, tell me what’s up,” Jessa said after a few minutes, her voice teasing.

“What?” I asked, feigning innocence.

“That stupid little smile you're trying to hide. It’s a man, isn’t it?”

I snorted. “Not everything’s about men, Jess.”

She arched an eyebrow. “Everything’s about men when you look like you just stole the last cookie and got away with it. I know you, Vivi. Don’t try to pretend with me.”

I sighed, dragging my paddle through the water lazily.

“There might be a guy,” I admitted. “Elias. Tech genius type. Friend of the ballet company’s office manager.”

“Tech genius, huh?” she said, bumping my kayak with hers. “Tell me he’s not a troll.”

“He’s ... definitely not a troll.” I bit my lip, thinking of those shoulders, that lazy smirk, those eyes like twin blue flame throwers. “More like ... Viking hacker with a grudge against gravity.”

Jessa let out a low whistle. “And you’re not dragging him upstairs above Liquid Courage because ...?”

“Because he’s all broody and tightly wound,” I said. “I’m pretty sure he calculates his emotional responses in code.”

“So basically, your dream man,” she said, grinning.

I laughed. “Maybe.”

At least he wasn’t like the usual guys who showed up in my life—smiling too wide, flexing too hard, seeing “ballerina” like it was some kind of fantasy box to check off.

I could spot them a mile away.

The ones who thought dating a dancer meant I’d be delicate and pliable, all soft sighs and gratitude.

Or worse, the ones who fetishized the discipline, imagining control in the studio translated to submission everywhere else.

Spoiler alert: it didn’t.

I wasn’t some demure little swan waiting for a prince. I was fire. Wild and spinning and hard to hold. And most of the men who came sniffing around figured that out too late—usually around the time I chose a skydiving trip over a second date.

Elias didn’t look at me like that.

Didn’t look at me like a prize or a prop.

If anything, he looked at me like a problem he wanted to solve—and maybe break open in the process.

Which, honestly? Was way more tempting than I wanted to admit.

The thought lingered as I dug my paddle into the water, muscles in my arms burning pleasantly. It felt good to move differently after spending hours locked in the brutal precision of rehearsal.

My feet, abused and blistered from pointe shoes, floated weightless in the kayak, and I almost sighed from the relief.

No pressure.

No burning arches.

No Madame Odette barking counts over a metronome.

Just me, the sky, and the endless dark water stretching out like a road to nowhere.

We floated farther from the launch, letting the harbor swallow us up.

Jessa cracked open another Red Bull, the sound sharp in the humid night.

“You ever think we’re maybe a little too reckless?” she asked, smirking.

“All the time,” I said. “Still doesn’t stop me.”

But just as the words left my mouth, the water shifted—fast. A sudden, powerful current sucked at the bottom of my kayak, spinning me sideways.

I dug my paddle in instinctively, trying to correct, but the nose of the boat caught something—a hidden sandbar or debris—and jerked violently. The kayak pitched hard, the harbor tilting in a sickening roll of black and silver. For one heart-stopping second, I thought I was going in.

My body reacted before my mind could catch up, knees bracing, muscles locking tight. I fought the pull, using every ounce of strength left in my battered legs and arms to stay upright.

The adrenaline hit so fast it was like a slap—hot and dizzying.

Jessa shouted something—warning or encouragement, I couldn’t tell—but my heartbeat drowned everything else out.

Thump-thump-thump .

Like a drum in my ears. Like the echo of the stage floor beneath my pointe shoes.

For a moment, true fear slithered through me—cold and real and sharp. The harbor wasn’t a joke.

If I tipped, if I went under at the wrong time, if a freighter rolled through and churned up the water ... I could disappear. Swallowed whole by the dark.

But the fear wasn’t clean. It twisted with something hotter, something heady.

The same electric jolt I felt the second before a leap—the knowledge that I might crash and burn spectacularly, but God, the flight would be worth it.

I gritted my teeth and forced the kayak to right itself, dragging my paddle hard against the current. The boat wobbled. Teetered. Then, slowly, steadied.

I gasped, chest heaving, the salt air burning in my lungs.

My feet throbbed inside my sneakers, angry reminders of the hours spent in brutal, unrelenting pointe work earlier today.

Blisters, bruises, calluses—I wore them like medals.

But right now? Floating here, fighting against something bigger than me?

I didn’t feel broken.

I felt alive.

A raw laugh tore out of me before I could stop it.

Jessa, still nearby, whooped and pumped her paddle in the air like a victory flag.

“That’s what I’m talking about!” she hollered.

“Not dead yet!” I yelled back, laughing until the sound dissolved into the night.

My arms ached, my feet throbbed, my heart raced. But the thrill swallowed everything else. This— this was the edge I lived for. The razor-thin line between falling and flying.

We drifted closer to the Battery, the lights from the city growing sharper, scattering silver across the dark water.

Up ahead, a boathouse and dock jutted out into the harbor, anchored to an estate so massive it almost looked ridiculous against the shoreline.

Dominion Hall.

I knew the name. Everyone in Charleston did.

The place was pure, unapologetic excess.

Pale stone and sprawling grounds, private gates, and a reputation dripping with rumors.

Some said it was old family money, others swore it was new wealth built on something bloodier.

Men who were too young to be that rich, too dangerous to be that quiet.

Private security, black-tinted SUVs, the occasional whispered sighting of men who looked like they could kill you with their bare hands and not lose a wink of sleep over it.

The kind of place you didn’t get invited to unless you were either insanely rich, stupidly brave, or both.

I’d never been that curious. Until now.

On the dock, a cluster of people lingered—men mostly, big and broad-shouldered, the type who looked like they either owned the harbor or fought wars on it.

And a few women, too, tucked close to them like they belonged there. Laughing softly, sipping drinks, their bodies turned toward the men like planets caught in orbit.

I didn’t recognize any of them.

Not yet.

Until I saw him.

Elias.

Standing apart from the rest, arms crossed over his broad chest, wearing that same black T-shirt that clung like it had been painted on.

His blond hair caught the moonlight, and even from the water, I could see the tension rippling off him in waves.

The second he spotted me, his whole body stiffened.

His gaze slammed into mine like a punch, hot and furious.

Jessa caught the shift immediately.

“Uh, oh,” she murmured. “Big Bad Viking does not look thrilled. Is that your guy?”

I nodded and grinned, wicked.

“What’s he gonna do, swim after me?”

Jessa snickered but slowed her kayak, letting me drift closer toward the boathouse like a lure on a line.

Elias stalked forward to the edge of the dock, looming there like some angry sea god.

His friends—whoever they were—fell quiet, sensing the shift even if they didn’t understand it.

“What the hell are you doing?” Elias barked across the water, voice low and rough.

I rested my paddle across my lap, raising my eyebrows in mock innocence. “Kayaking,” I called back sweetly. “Obviously.”

“You’re in the goddamn harbor. At night. Alone.”

“Correction—we are in the harbor,” I said, gesturing at Jessa, who gave him a lazy wave. “And the sharks are probably too drunk to bother us.”

One of the guys beside Elias choked on his beer, and the others—couples, clearly—tried to hide their amusement.

Elias didn’t move.

He just glared, and I swear if looks could lasso a person, I’d already be hog-tied on the dock.

“You’re out of your fucking mind,” he muttered.

I paddled a little closer, my kayak bumping softly against the dock where he stood, towering over me.

I tilted my head back, letting my curls tumble loose, flashing him my best what’s your problem? grin.

“You worried about me, Cipher?” I teased.

Elias dropped into a crouch, forearms resting on his knees, the muscles in his arms pulling tight.

He looked like he was trying not to throttle me—or kiss me. Hard to tell which.

“You don’t know what’s out here,” he said, voice low enough to make my stomach clench. “The night doesn’t take prisoners.”

“Neither do I,” I said lightly, leaning just a little closer.

The heat between us crackled like static off a live wire. He stared at me like he wanted to tear the world apart—and hated himself for it.

“You’re gonna get yourself hurt one day,” he said, voice rough. “And I’m not the kind of man who stands by and watches.”

The words landed harder than I expected.

Not a threat. A promise.

For a second, I forgot how to breathe.

Then I shoved off from the dock with my paddle, spinning lazily away, heart thudding in my chest.

“Well then, Cipher,” I called over my shoulder, “you better keep up.”

I didn’t look back. Didn’t have to. I could feel him standing there, fists clenched, watching me disappear into the dark.

And the wildest part?

I didn’t want to be saved. I wanted to be chased.