Page 102 of Stolen Vows

34

GRAHAM

I should be working.Sunday nights are for getting ahead. Reviewing reports, tracking cyber threats, tightening vulnerabilities in client systems.

I should be building the web. What started as a possible copycat case has grown into something much larger. Instead of one or two hackers, cousins by their code similarity, it’s a group. A collective of hackers known as Blackwire.

There’s chatter about them in some of the dark web forums, but it’s mostly rumors. But the profile fits. A long string of ransomware attacks on school districts, mostly along the East Coast. Some are small-scale, barely making headlines. Others are coordinated, efficient, destructive.

And now, for the first time, I can see the shape of it.

A network. A pattern. A signature.

I lean forward, eyes scanning lines of code, forcing my brain to stay on topic when all I really want to do is watch my wife. I wouldn’t say no to another kiss either.

My gaze betrays me, sliding over to the monitor on the left side, where the split screen camera feeds of Francesca’s bedroom and bathroom remains.

I lean back in my chair, crossing my arms as I watch Francesca through the security camera feed. My gaze lingers on the way she worries her bottom lip between her teeth, the way her fingers flex around the edges of her Kindle. I recognize that look on her face. The pinched brow, the slightly glazed eyes. She’s completely lost in whatever story she’s reading, so absorbed that the world around her has fallen away.

I wonder what fictional world has captured her attention so thoroughly. What kind of story makes her breath hitch and her cheeks flush that pretty shade of pink. The urge to go to her, to pull her into my lap and kiss her until she’s breathless, is a physical ache in my chest. But I force myself to stay in my chair, my fingers digging into my biceps as I watch her.

She shifts on the bed, drawing her knees up as she leans back against the pillows. The movement causes her sleep shorts to ride up, revealing another tantalizing inch of smooth, golden skin. My mouth goes dry, desire simmering low in my gut.

God, the things I want to do to her. The ways I want to unravel her.

I exhale slowly through my nose, trying to drag my focus back to the monitors in front of me. The lines of code blur, my concentration shot. It’s useless. She consumes me, even from across the hall.

Curiosity gnaws at me, persistent and relentless. What’s she reading tonight?

Before I can second guess myself, my fingers are flying across the keyboard. It takes me less than a minute to access her kindle account through a backdoor in the app's code.

Her current book looks like some kind of werewolf romance.

My eyes skim over the highlighted passages, curiosity burning hotter with each one. I scroll to the chapter she’s currently reading.

She could hear him behind her, his footsteps heavy and purposeful. The alpha. Chasing her. Hunting her.

A shiver raced down her spine, equal parts fear and exhilaration. She knew she should be terrified, running for her life from the most dangerous predator in these woods. But a dark, primal part of her wanted to be caught.

Another howl rents the air, closer this time. A warning. A promise.

Heat pooled low in her belly despite the chill of the night. She should be afraid. She was, in a distant, muted way. But more than that, she was excited. She wanted him to take her, to pin her down against the forest floor and bury his face between her thighs.

I exhale slowly and sit back. Okay. So my wife might like the idea of being chased or maybe she just likes werewolves. A new highlight appears on the screen, and I lean forward to read it. It’s the moment the hero pins her down and eats her out.

“Hm.” A slow exhale leaves my chest, measured. My pulse beats harder in my throat.

Francesca wants this?

I stare at the screen, my grip on the desk tightening. My wife, with her sunny smiles and soft laughter, who sings show tunes to help her plants grow highlights pages like this? Like she’s cataloging things she wants? Things she’s waiting to be given? Is this a wish list she’s planning to send Santa Claus at the end of the year? I’m sure I have a red sweater tucked away somewhere.

I let my gaze unfocus and picture my wife running through the house, looking over her shoulder for me, slowing down so she’ll get caught quicker.

I lean forward, scrolling back up. What else has she highlighted? I should stop, close the window, and get my ass back to work.

But I don’t. I keep reading.

Just call me jolly fucking Saint Nick, I guess. Because I’m going to give my wife every single thing she wants.

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