Ezra Sokolov (Cypher Security Book 2) Read online

  Ezra Sokolov

  Celia Crown

  Copyright © 2020 by Celia Crown

  All rights reserved.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters, and events are from the author's imagination or folklore, legends, and general myths.

  The book or any portion of the book may not be reproduced or used under any circumstances, except with the written permission from the author. Public names, movies, televisions, and locales, or any references are used for atmospheric purposes. Any similarities and resemblances to alive or dead people, events, brands, and locales are all complete coincidences.

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  Contents

  Ezra Sokolov

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Epilogue

  Author’s other works!

  Follow the Author

  WARNING: This contains sensitive material that will be triggering to some, reader discretion is advised. Graphic Violence.

  Ezra Sokolov

  by Celia Crown

  I never wanted something as desperately as I wanted her.

  So small, so pretty, and so damn strong.

  I want to dominate her, control those lithe curves of her body, and poison her sharp mind with my name.

  Nothing had gotten me this thrilled.

  Not the adrenaline from bare-fisted boxing, not the cracks of bones rippling into my ears, and not the one hundred-million-dollar prize from the champion match.

  None of that comes on par when her thighs had straddled me, hand cutting into my neck and eyes lighting up with ferociousness.

  I want her, and I’m going to have her.

  Chapter One

  Ezra

  “Oh, my beautiful daughter. Long time no see!”

  I sigh into my scarf and grumble under my breath at the uninvited appearance of my father. The man has no qualms at all about timing, but I should be accustomed to his flighty tactics.

  He likes to appear and disappear at odd times; it is normal not to hear from him for a month if I am lucky.

  He once went on a journey of self-discovery for a year and then grew a beard when he came back to civilization.

  “Welcome home, Dad,” I say with a smooth turn of my body to dodge his open arms.

  He’s sweating and panting, but he shouldn’t be since he just jumped out of his haphazardly parked car on the side of the road.

  People are giving us dirty looks, partly because he is screaming at the top of his lungs at seven on a Saturday morning.

  “You wouldn’t believe what happened!” he exclaims with a puff of his chest.

  “Mom wouldn’t like it if you brought back a car that won’t run after two miles,” I quip quietly as I walk with him.

  It is more of me walking while trying to ignore his constant chattering and him catching up to my strides. I had to remind him to lock his car before it gets carjacked.

  “It was a nineteen sixty-two Jaguar E-Type, still one of the most beautiful classic cars ever known to humankind.”

  “Humankind is doomed with that kind of taste.” I groan at the thought of that hideous car.

  I don’t understand the fascination with classic cars, and I do not care for them. But Dad loves them so much that he’ll spend every dime on them.

  That is if he is not terrified of Mom whipping out her feather duster and whacking that notion out the window, along with his soul.

  “What are you doing here, Dad?” I question, stopping near a store to speak to him without blocking the sidewalk.

  “I can’t visit my daughter?” he asks.

  He is shocked for some reason.

  “I recall you wanted to go ‘no-contact’ on your duck-hunting trip,” I point out dully.

  He becomes flustered. “Ah, yes, that. I decided it was not for me, but I did pick up on something else.”

  “Please don’t tell me it’s one of your Vegas girls.” I close my eyes and pinch the bridge of my nose to ease the thumping pain at my temple.

  My father gasps and presses his wrinkled fingers to his chest. “That was a one-time misunderstanding; you know my heart belongs to your mother.”

  “You say it as if she’s not your wife,” I grumble with a huff.

  He laughs animatedly with a hint of nervousness. “When I told your mother what my newest investment is—”

  “Investment, is that what you call your spontaneous trips?”

  My father swallows and scowls softly at me. “As I was saying, your mother doesn’t approve of my interest in boxing.”

  “What? Is wrestling with bears not exciting enough for you?” I raise an eyebrow as his hand closes around my elbow to guide me to his car.

  The ugliest classic car I have seen in his collection, but I’ll keep that opinion to myself so he stays on topic.

  “What happened in Russia stays in Russia, my yezhik.”

  Little hedgehog, his favorite term of endearment for me.

  My father is a big man; people have mistaken him for a Neanderthal coming out of hiding after millions of years. A full-blooded Russian, his skin is darker than usual for that country.

  My mother is a small woman on the feistier side, despite not being taken seriously. She can hold her own in a fight and come out the winner with a slipper in her hand.

  I take after my mother in both size and personality. Maybe I would have taken after Dad a bit more if he was not so into living life to its fullest when I was a child.

  I don’t resent him for his parenting style because he was so affectionate whenever he came back.

  It is not healthy, but every family is different.

  “So,” I begin calmly as his car purrs to life.

  For such an old car, it does not sputter or groan when it starts. I’m more concerned about taking it onto a notoriously high-traffic freeway. But he is too joyful to care much about it.

  It is going to be so embarrassing to have the car shut down in the middle of the freeway.

  “So,” he mimics me.

  “Where are we going?” I ask. “This is my one week of vacation, I expect it to be relaxing.”

  “You don’t want to spend time with me?” he inquires.

  “Not really,” I quip bluntly.

  He nudges his chin towards the glove compartment. “Open it. There’s something I need you to sign.”

  Doing as he says, I find a heavy folder with a pen that rolls away from my curious fingers when I open it. The document is way too familiar, and a sense of dread wrangles my stomach.

  “Who do you want me to protect?” I question as I purse my lips.

  I work for Cypher Security, so it is no surprise my father would take advantage of that. He is a businessman, or so he says.

  He said he was a spiritual guide three months ago, but heaven knows how much of that is true.

  “My boxer, he’s going for the championship and will need a personal bodyguard.”

  “Oh,” I mumble. “You’re not the boxer.”

  “Be considerate of me,” he gripes. “I can resist the temptation to take on opponents. But I like it better when my training takes down another great opponent, no matter how self-centered he is.”

  “What?” I ask mindlessly while reading over the contract.

  It is the usual terms and conditions I agree to before starting a job.
But the client is not a big politician.

  Well, I am not into sports and would not know too much about it. If my father is willing to spend his precious time training someone, it has the potential for big rewards.

  Whoever this man is, my father sees him as a money tree.

  “No,” I decline.

  “No?” he whispers back, shocked.

  “It’s my week off,” I say as if that explains everything.

  It should because a week off means no work and no strenuous activities. But my father doesn’t understand, staring at me as if I have grown an extra head.

  “No?” he says as his voice cracks.

  “Dad,” I hiss.

  I reach over and jerk his chin back to the road, the scruff on his skin uncomfortable on my fingers.

  “You must!” he shrieks.

  “I mustn’t.” I scoff and slide the document back.

  “Please, my dear girl,” he begs with a dry sob. “You must help me. I already told him he would be getting a personal bodyguard to protect him from the fans. He can’t shield himself without getting backlash from the news.”

  Realistically, I would decline just because of the troublesome media presence alone. Nevertheless, publicity brings in more clients. More clients mean more money, and I can get bigger bonuses.

  When money is involved, I have more motivation to put up with spoiled brats.

  Most of the politicians I have protected were secret brats behind doors. Anything that did not go their way would cause an imbalance in their need for control.

  “Alright,” I agree and sign my name to it.

  Contract signing is a complex process. The client cannot choose their own bodyguards, and no amount of money will get the company to change its policies. We have a system to review new clients and consider all the factors before assigning bodyguards.

  My father must have talked his way into getting preferential treatment from my boss, another mystery I would like to solve. My boss is notorious for his iron reign in controlling the company.

  “I’ll scan this over to Cypher,” I offer while my mind is thinking about the bonus check.

  New clients and current clients have different documentation. So newly acquired clients result in bonuses for the person who signed them up for the company.

  “Oh, thank you, my dear.” My dad breathes a sigh and parks the car in front of a massive hotel.

  I squint my eyes and glare at the man. “You knew I was going to sign.”

  He clears his throat awkwardly at the accusation. “I knew you wouldn’t let your father down.”

  I roll my eyes and unbuckle the seatbelt. My father gives the valet a verbal warning about keeping his baby in perfect condition.

  I hold the file in my hand and glance around the lobby, designed with the color of wealth as the gold gleams off the white chandeliers.

  The manager of the hotel half-jogs to us. “Mr. Sokolov!”

  Dad hands me a keycard and pats the back of my hand. “Here is the key to your client’s room.”

  “Introduce yourself and get acquainted; we’ll be traveling to another city for training immediately.”

  Part of me wants to ask why the client is here in the first place if he is going to be relocated.

  “I’ll be up shortly,” he says while ushering me to the elevator.

  I scan the lobby once again and note the heightened security, more than what the hotel needs. Given that this place is famous with celebrities, I gathered they took the time to hire more guards.

  There is a little note attached to the keycard that shows the floor and room number. I follow the instructions and wait for the elevator to ascend.

  A quiet buzz rings as the door opens onto a long hallway. This is the VIP level, just below the Presidential Suite.

  I find the room and knock on the door, the echo dulled by the dense material. I call out to my client, but no one has come to the door after a five-second wait.

  I use the keycard and enter the room with a bell-like noise when the lock snaps open.

  One step inside and I can already smell the faint whiff of laundry detergent, plus a dominant scent that makes my skin crawl. The place does not look very lived-in with simple things out of place. A phone on the desk along with white headphones, an open water bottle, and a bag with clothes peeking out.

  Near the desk, there is a cart from room service with silver covers on two plates of food. It’s not a familiar odor; it must be something new or complimentary from the hotel.

  A slight movement in the reflection of the silver cover snags my attention. It’s a body, but the image is too distorted to give much detail.

  As the figure closes in, the scent of fresh shampoo does too. I spin on my heels, one hand wrapping around the man’s neck with the speed of a viper. He throws his weight onto me and sends us both to the ground.

  In hindsight, I remember this room belongs to my client. On the other hand, I would rather be careful than end up in an unfavorable position.

  My knee digs into the hardened muscles of his arm. One hand is still around his thick neck, the other is holding a wrist above his head, and my legs straddle his upper torso.

  A very naked and wet torso that shudders briefly, but my eyes are on his face.

  “You’re not Ezra.” His voice is deep, a low timbre of crushed velvet that breezes through my straining thighs.

  His chest is wide, and I am on the short side. So, my legs must stretch across him to avoid pinching his skin under my knees. It also means I am sitting on his wet chest with water droplets soaking through my black pants.

  “I am Ezra,” I affirm with a tightening grip around his neck.

  “I was expecting a man.” His muscles shift dangerously. The calmness in his pliant form is a warning; he is reserving power to throw me off in one move.

  “Have fewer expectations next time,” I say.

  I do not trust this man enough to release my grip.

  When I distribute my strength equally across his body, I can hold him down. The coiling power in my fingers around his neck is enough to abolish his thoughts of getting free.

  Until I can get a confirmation of his identity, this man is a threat on some level. The fine-tuned lines of his body are from rigorous training. So, he is either the boxer my dad was talking about, or he’s a nasty opponent.

  “Who’re you?” he asks as his amber eyes glow with malice.

  “I’m Ezra, as far as I know.” I glare back with a stifled scoff suppressing my tone. “You are?”

  The corner of his lips twitch, a sneer stretching across his pearly white teeth. “Reese.”

  “What are you doing here?” he asks, but there is not any hostility in his voice to match the malice in his eyes.

  “To protect you.” I contemplate letting go, but he did sneak up on me without warning.

  He replies with a clipped tone, “I don’t need protection. I can fend for myself.”

  I hate that. I hate it when my clients want to deal with things themselves despite the help being given to them. It makes my job so unnecessarily difficult because they will try to shake the tail on them.

  “The last time I heard that,” I note dryly. “My client’s seat was ejected due to a malfunctioning bomb.”

  I flex the grip around his neck.

  Everything about him is too big; it is no wonder my father decided to hire protection. He is not worried about fans and the people near him, he wants me to protect them from this man.

  I can only imagine him losing his temper and then accidentally killing someone in the heat of the moment with just one punch.

  “Don’t worry, you won’t even notice me,” I say pointedly.

  I move my weight off him and swiftly jump away, but I do not help him up. He is capable of that himself, and he doesn’t even bother to adjust the loosened towel around his grooved hips.

  “I doubt that,” he comments.

  He holds the towel without a hint of self-consciousness. This man’s body frame
and structure are impressive.

  I tilt my head and study his body language while dragging my eyes to the reddened skin on his neck.

  “I don’t stand out too much,” I remark drearily.

  “Your accent does,” he quips back quickly.

  My accent comes from living in Russia when I was a child. I know it has not gone away just because I moved to the States. It is no longer as heavy as when I was younger, but the sound is still there.

  I don’t mind, but it gets obnoxious when my clients obsess about it. They try to be nonchalant about it, but their bodily response does not lie when I speak.

  “I don’t have to talk to throw someone out the window,” I assure him as he comes closer. Frankly, his sheer confidence that I will not hit him is scary.

  He hums as his glimmering amber eyes flicker mysteriously. His arms stay by his side, but his close presence is suffocating.

  My body reacts with a subtle shiver down my spine as the tingling in my body reluctantly grows.

  “Is there anything I should know before I start this job, sir?” I ask, a tone of professionalism switching the gears in my head to smother the peculiar prickling in my body.

  It is weird. I have never had a client trigger a response so sharply devious that a wave of dizziness snags a moment of my focus.

  “Such as?” His chest rumbles as if the words come from a deep place in his ribs.

  His skin is not clean, it is littered with unintelligible ink. I cock my head and stare into his eyes as the flecks of gold swirl tantalizingly.

  “Anything to make this job run efficiently,” I say.

  He pauses as he takes a diligent second to mention something, “Only what you need to do.”

  “I only have one rule, sir,” I quip. “Understand your limits.”

  Reese hums with confusion. I expected it; all my clients have questions about that rule. So, I am prepared to explain the same thing to him.

  “I’m here to protect you; I will not be a backup for your foolishness if you flaunt your strength—wealth, power, or ego.”