A Brothers torment.

Trent highlighted the directory containing hundreds of gigabytes of unencrypted evidence—videos, bank records showing payments from her father's personal account to her "business" account, and chat logs where they discussed meeting up for "content creation."

"Checkmate," Trent whispered.

He didn't just download the files; he cloned the entire server. If Jessie wanted to play hardball, Trent wasn't just going to strike her out; he was going to burn the stadium down around her. He set up a delayed payload script, ready to release the folder to the University Dean, the swim coach, and the local police if she so much as breathed a word about Natalia to anyone.

Just to be sure the leash was tight, Trent composed a final, anonymous message to Jessie’s burner, attaching a single, sanitized screenshot of her father’s face from the video—the scar clearly visible. He typed it out with a calmness that terrified even him: “Lovely family dynamic. It would be a shame if the Dean’s office received the full folder instead of this warning. Stay in your lane, or I drown you both.” He hit send, watching the delivery receipt pop up instantly, imagining the blood draining from her face as she realized the predator had become the prey.

With the nuclear threat neutralized, Trent turned his attention to the mess in the hallway. Natalia was still at the club, presumably grinding on Harrison for the cause, but she would be home soon expecting a clean slate. He slipped out of his room and crept toward the laundry room, where he had stashed the stolen VIP uniforms and the bugged microphones earlier that afternoon. The fabric of the corsets was cool and slick under his fingers as he stuffed them deep into the bottom of the hamper, burying them under his own dirty gym clothes to mask the scent of smoke and perfume.

He paused for a moment, holding the microphone-equipped bra up to the dim light, thinking about the corporate secrets it had captured and the sister it had been meant to exploit. Tossing it into the wash, he set the machine to a heavy-duty sanitize cycle, effectively drowning the evidence. By the time Natalia walked through the door, exhausted and smelling of sex and hustle, the house would be sterile, the digital trail erased, and her safety guaranteed—all while holding a IOU that bound her to him completely.

Sunday dinner was always a big thing at the Volkov house.  Trent usually tried to avoid it, but his mother insisted on cooking a massive roast dinner for lunch, so Dad could watch the game on TV and drink himself into a coma.  Mum was still very attractive and Trent often wondered what she was like in bed.  He had heard Natalia orgasm loudly next to his room, when she had her latest girlfriends over but never heard his mother. Maybe she wasn't sexually active anymore, Trent thought, God Knew his father wasn't.

The roast chicken sat untouched on Natalia’s plate, growing cold in the stifling heat of the dining room. Outside, the autumn wind howled, but inside, the atmosphere was thick with false domesticity.

"You've been quiet, sweetheart," their father said, carving into the meat with a silver knife that glinted under the chandelier lights. "Exhausting week with the swim team?"

Natalia flinched. Under the table, hidden by the white linen tablecloth, her phone vibrated against her thigh for the third time in sixty seconds. Unknown Number.

Trent sat beside her, calmly cutting his potatoes. He hadn't looked at her since they sat down, but his presence was a physical weight, grounding her. He wore a hidden earpiece, nearly invisible against his dark hair, connected to the laptop running in his upstairs bedroom.

"Just... tired, Daddy," Natalia said, her voice tight. She took a sip of water to wet her dry throat. She was dressed for a "study group" she wasn't attending, wearing a cream-colored silk camisole that was practically diaphanous. It clung to her curves, the deep V-neck exposing a dangerous amount of cleavage, the fabric so thin her nipples were clearly outlined against the silk. It was inappropriate for a family dinner, but she needed to be ready to run the moment Trent gave the signal.

"Thinking about making some changes," she added quickly, desperate to steer the conversation away from her swimming schedule, which she had completely neglected this week.

Their mother frowned, setting down her wine glass. "Changes? Like what?"

Natalia took a breath. She felt the phone buzz again—a long, angry vibration. Carol, one of the managers from the club and a complete hard ass, as well as predatory lesbian bitch.  She knew Natalia had the uniforms.  Carol was probably tracking her location right now.

"I was thinking," Natalia started, her voice trembling slightly. She leaned forward, resting her elbows on the table, knowing the motion pushed her breasts together and drew the eye. "I want a tattoo."

Her father paused, the knife hovering over the roast. "A tattoo? On your shoulder? You know how the coach feels about ink."

"No," Natalia whispered, locking eyes with him. "Not on my shoulder."

 She reached up, her fingers trembling as she traced the upper swell of her left breast, right where the soft pale skin met the lace of her camisole. "Here. Right on the side of my tit. Maybe a little anchor, or... something delicate."

The silence that followed was deafening. Her father turned a shade of beet red, sputtering into his napkin. "Natalia! Language! And—absolutely not. That is... that is trashy."

"I think it would be sexy," she pressed, her breath hitching. She was terrified. Carol was texting threats now, she could feel it. She needed Trent to act. She needed him to save her from the bitch blowing up her phone and the man judging her across the table simultaneously.

Buzz. Buzz.

She looked at Trent, panic widening her blue eyes.

Trent chewed slowly, swallowed, and then cleared his throat. "Let the girl express herself, Dad," Trent said, his voice smooth and commanding. He didn't look at Natalia, but under the table, his hand moved.

He found her bare knee, her skin warm and smooth. His hand slid up, gripping her thigh firmly—possessively. Natalia gasped softly, almost imperceptibly.

"It's just ink," Trent continued, staring down their father. "And she's eighteen. If she wants to mark her body, that's her business."

In Natalia's ear, Trent's voice came through the earpiece, cool and detached from the conversation he was currently holding with their parents. "Breathe, Nat. I'm in their phones now.  I'm cloning the SIM card. Keep them talking. Buy me thirty seconds."

Natalia squeezed her thighs together, trapping Trent's hand against her skin. The heat of his palm was searing. She looked at him, her lips parted, a flush rising on her chest that had nothing to do with the argument and everything to do with the power he was wielding over her life.

"It's... it's about ownership, Daddy," Natalia stammered, looking back at her father, her voice breathy and thin. She was riding the edge of a panic attack, but Trent's grip on her leg was the only thing keeping her anchored. "Marking what's mine."

"I won't hear of it," her father snapped, picking up his fork aggressively. "You're an athlete, Natalia, not some... canvas."

"Got it," Trent’s voice whispered in her ear. "I just routed their incoming texts to a dead loop in the Ukraine. She thinks your phone is turned off. I'm wiping  location logs now. You're safe."

 Trent squeezed her thigh hard, his fingers digging into the soft flesh of her inner leg, just inches from the hem of her skirt. It was a signal: I own this. I own you.

Natalia let out a shuddering breath, her shoulders slumping as the adrenaline crashed into a wave of intense, dizzying arousal. She was safe.  Her brother had hacked a crime syndicate's middleman while eating roast chicken.

She reached under the table and covered his hand with her own, interlacing their fingers. She squeezed—hard. A silent thank you. A submission.

"Okay, Daddy," Natalia whispered, picking up her fork. She looked at Trent, a dark, secret smile playing on her lips. "Maybe you're right. I'll keep it... natural for now."

Trent finally looked at her, a smirk ghosting across his mouth. He gave her thigh one last possessive stroke before pulling his hand away. "Smart girl, Nat."