On borrowed bandwidth.
With a datapad she named Percy.
She could have stolen enough from the administrative tier to blackmail House Sethrak for millions. Client lists, contract details, the identity of every operative in my network laid open beneath her fingers. She didn’t take any of it. The partial extraction my systems recovered was vulnerability data, security gap analyses, the kind of information a rival house would pay a fortune for. Not blackmail material, but currency. Survival credits for a woman with twenty-four days of breathable air.
Your security is shit.
That memory pulls at the corner of my mouth, and I angle my face away before she notices.
That was the first thing she said to me. Pinned against my chest. Halfway out a window. Caught inside a network she had no business penetrating in the first place. And she insulted my life’s work with the calm certainty of someone who had earned the right.
I haven’t laughed that honestly in longer than I can remember.
“So,” she says, and her stride doesn’t falter as the corridors widen around us, rough-cut stone giving way to carved archways. “Are you going to tell me what you want me for, or should I keep guessing?”
“You’ll identify the vulnerabilities in our digital architecture and rebuild any compromised systems you find. In exchange, you get credits, breathable air, and protection. And one more thing. You’ll work for me personally, not the House.”
I keep my pace measured and my tone administrative. The corridor’s bioluminescent panels shift from blue to gold as we descend, the environmental controls adjusting toward the warmth my species prefer.
“Not the House.” She glances sideways at me, and those dark eyes behind their wire-framed glasses hold a sharpness that cuts straight through charm. “What’s the difference?”
“If House Sethrak discovers what you’re capable of, you’ll stop being a contractor and become a resource.” The thought settles heavily in my chest. My father would recognize her value immediately. The rest of the House would too. “I’m offering you independence. You answer to me, you maintain control over your work and your body, and when the job is finished, you leave with enough credits to get off Vahiri.”
“And if I say no?”
“Then I return you to the Splits with your datapad, your mug, and your twenty-four days of breathable air, and we both pretend tonight never happened.” I run my tongue along my lower lip, catching the shift in her chemistry. The adrenaline is still there, sharp and bright, but beneath it pulses the warmer note her body keeps producing in proximity to mine. “Although I should warn you that any future attempts to breach my network will be significantly less successful.”
She’s quiet as she considers the offer.
No bargaining. No panic. No attempts to offer something she thinks I want. She simply weighs the information and searches for the best path through it. Most people react to power. This female evaluates it.
I find that more appealing than I should.
The corridors deepen around us, silk draped through alcoves and shifting in the ventilation currents. Music drifts up from below, a bass note that settles in the chest before the ear fully catches the melody.
“Why did you do it?”
She glances at me. The lenses of her glasses catch the bioluminescent glow, and her expression remains carefully neutral.
“The breach,” I clarify. “You carved through eight layers of military-grade encryption on a datapad held together with solder andoptimism. You accessed operational data that could have bought you passage off Vahiri ten times over.”
The corridor widens, and I deliberately slow my stride until we’re walking side by side instead of her trailing behind me.
“You also risked your life. If I hadn’t gone personally, one of my males would have traced the intrusion, and they wouldn’t have pulled you through a window. They would have eliminated the threat.”
The flush that blooms along her jaw isn’t fear. My heat-sensing catches it immediately. The warmth sits high on her cheekbones and colours the tips of her ears, while the chemistry in the air shifts into something I haven’t sensed from her before.
Embarrassment. From the female who informed me my security was shit while pinned against my chest.
“I was building evidence,” she says.
“Evidence of what?”
“That your security is breachable. I wasn’t trying to steal anything. I was documenting vulnerabilities. Mapping the gaps. Building a portfolio that proved I could see what your own people couldn’t.” She lifts her chin. “A human female in the Splits can’t walk up to House Sethrak’s front door and ask for an audition. She needs something to prove she’s worth listening to. The breach was mine.”
I study her as we walk. The stubborn set of her jaw. The glasses sliding down her nose. The datapad case locked against her chest as though she’d sooner surrender a limb than let someone take it from her.
She hacked one of the most secure networks on the planet because she wanted a job interview. The realization settles into place piece by piece, and with it comes the uncomfortable understanding that she isn’t wrong.
