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“Try me.”
I sigh, feeling a deep worry in my gut spread like wildfire. “I’m currently monitoring network traffic.”
“For what?”
I brace myself, pressing against his plush headboard. “For the spyware I found on Poppy’s old laptop.”
Kent tilts his head, “That doesn’t sound good.”
“It isn’t. I was transferring her data overnight, and I thought to myself before I dump all her old shit into this beautiful new baby, let me make sure everything is clean. Surprise, it wasn’t, and that’s not the most disturbing part,” I admit; my throat thickens because I have no idea how I am going to admit this to Poppy. What I found isn’t good.
“You think the maintenance man installed it on her computer?” Kent asks. I can hear the worry in his voice. He scoots closer to me as if it’s some form of comfort.
“That’s what I assumed.”
“That sounds like you’re thinking something else now?”
I lick my lips. He’s right. I assumed the creep had put the spyware on her laptop, but after a short dig, I started to worry that something else was going on.
Until I have concrete evidence, I won’t know.
“I’m monitoring where the data is being sent to, Kent,” I begin to tell him. Actually, venting to him is kind of refreshing. “While that is running in the background, I’m reverse-engineering the spyware to understand its code structure and functionality. I want to find a hole or backdoor so I can get inside and gather more information about its origin or even take control of it.”
“Fuck, that sounds sexy,” he mutters. “Keep dirty tech-talking to me, Siren.”
He’s forcing me to taste my own medicine. Turning serious moments into sexualized jokes. Swallowing your own medicine is hard but doable. Open up and swallow. See…that could be sexual, too. Kent and I are two peas in a condom-sized pod.
Ignoring him, I continue as my eyes keep looking up and down his body. “I’m going to trace the IP addresses the spyware communicates with. Once I find it, I will set up honeypots—decoy systems to trick them into revealing themselves,” I turn to face him, “and then I’m going to launch a counterattack.”
Kent flashes that signature grin, lazily lacing his fingers behind his head as he lounges back against a headboard that screams, "Playboy with a taste for luxury." The early light sneaks in through those pretentiously large windows, draping us in a glow that feels a bit too warm, a bit too intimate. His bedroom is a shrine to minimalist chic—sharp lines, a palette that sticks religiously to blacks, grays, and the occasional rebellious splash of deep red. It's all so... Kent. The air carries a hint of sandalwood mixed with a tang of citrus, subtle yet undeniably present, much like the man himself, lounging in nothing but his boxers, making it hard not to notice... well, everything.
“Siren,” he slowly says, his nickname for me. You really are beautiful.” His eyes soften into a genuine look he has begun to show me when it’s just the two of us.
My gulp gets stuck to the walls of my throat, which feels more like quicksand. He’s looking at me too deeply like he’s referring to my heartbroken soul. If I try to wiggle free, his eyes will just trap me deeper. So, I try not to react or show emotions.
I fail and slip an inch deeper into his trap.
“I wish I could hurt whoever made you this way.” He whispers.
“I made myself this way.” Why did I tell him that?
He pushes up into a seated position. “Then let me fix you.”
My lip tugs up into a sad grin. “You and I are not ‘fixers,’ Kent. We are the ones that break hearts, not mend them.”
I dare to look at him. His initial facial gesture tells me I’m correct.
“People change, Siren.”
“Some stay the same.” I blink rapidly and look back at my keyboard, wishing I could just press ‘delete’ on this conversation. “Cut it out with the nickname.”
He looks at me a second longer before he dissolves the serious moment. “Oh,” he draws out the word, turning it into a playful tease, “you're into it. ‘Siren’ suits you.”
Good, we’re back to banter. I feel like I can inhale again. When I do, my hard heart feels weaker…more fragile, like some of my thick scar tissue was chipped away by his eyes.
“You just can't be bothered to remember my actual name because it requires a brain cell that can function,” I counter.
He shifts closer. The sheets slip, revealing more of his sculpted lower torso. Clapping his hands together like he’s about to announce the next great plan, he shifts the focus back to the situation at hand. “So, what’s the move? Do we bring Julian into this little spy drama?”
