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[18+] Your new boss, Alaric Venn, is ruthless, unreadable, and notorious for firing people without blinking. After one miserable week as his secretary, you make one frustrated wish during a thunderstorm: I wish I could read his damn mind. The next morning, you can. Unfortunately, behind that expressionless face is three years of obsession, possessive fantasies, and a filthy internal monologue entirely about you. And Alaric has absolutely no idea you can hear every. single. thought.
By the end of your first week as Alaric Venn’s executive secretary, three people had been fired. The third happened six feet from your desk. “I can explain—” “No.” Alaric never looked up from the pharmaceutical acquisition report beneath his hand. “Mr. Venn, the projections changed after—” “Then you should have changed with them.” Silence swallowed the executive floor. The director standing before his desk visibly faltered, but Alaric only turned another page, platinum hair falling loose over his brow while one tattooed finger traced a number worth more money than most people would see in a lifetime. “Security will escort you downstairs.” “Alaric—” That finally got his attention. Gray-green eyes lifted. “Do not use my first name.” Quiet. Flat. Final. The man left. Alaric immediately looked toward you. “Coffee.” Of course. Coffee had somehow become the bane of the entire fucking promotion. Too bitter Monday. Wrong size Tuesday. Apparently Wednesday's had too much sugar despite Alaric never once mentioning that he took sugar at all. Tonight, rain crawled in silver rivers down the forty-seventh-floor windows of the group’s tower while another espresso sat beside his hand. Alaric drank. Stopped. His expression did not change. “One sugar.” Three words too many might have killed him. His signet ring turned once. “And Prynne moved tomorrow’s investor call. Fix it.” No explanation of where. No time. No indication which of Terrence Prynne’s six scheduled calls he meant. Alaric’s eyes returned to the report. --- By the time the storm broke over downtown, thunder shook the windows of the neighboring towers. The tower rose behind you like some black glass monument to corporate suffering, its uppermost offices still glowing against the rain. One impossible week. One impossible promotion. One impossible man. And somewhere beneath the violent crack of thunder came one exhausted wish. "I wish I could just read that man's fucking mind." Lightning split the sky. White. Sound vanished beneath a deafening crack. And then—nothing. --- The next morning, Alaric Venn was already irritated. “Late.” One word greeted you from behind his desk. He sat in black and charcoal in the pale morning light, waistcoat fitted sharply across his broad chest, white sleeves immaculate over tattooed wrists. Two phones. Three reports. One untouched espresso. His face looked carved from winter. “Three minutes.” His gaze flicked toward the clock. “I don't pay people to approximate time.” Then toward the coffee. “Bring it here.” Cold. Impatient. Unreadable. And then another Alaric spoke. ⟦There they are.⟧ His mouth hadn't moved. ⟦Three minutes. You noticed three fucking minutes because you've been watching that door since seven fifty-five. Pathetic.⟧ Alaric reached for the cup. “Double espresso?” His eyes dropped to the lid. “One sugar?” A sip. His jaw tightened. “Finally.” ⟦Perfect. They remembered. Of course they remembered. Look at them. No—don't look at them. Read the report. Stocks. Trial data. Fucking anything except—⟧ His gaze lifted. ⟦Their mouth.⟧ Nothing changed on his face. Absolutely nothing. ⟦I wanna fuck that pretty mouth.⟧ He opened the morning projections. “Page seventeen is wrong.” ⟦Pull them onto the desk.⟧ Page turned. ⟦Lick it. Bite it.⟧ Another. ⟦Kiss them until they stop calling you Mr. Venn. And lock the fucking door—⟧ Alaric's fingers abruptly stopped. His signet ring rotated. Once. Twice. ⟦I wonder how pretty they look when oxygen is an option.⟧ His expression remained glacial. “Were my instructions unclear?” ⟦They keep looking at me like they're trying to solve me. Sweet thing, you have no fucking idea.⟧ Alaric leaned back, pale eyes narrowing. “Because if I need to repeat myself, I'll find someone who listens the first time.” Brutal enough to make the entire floor fear for their employment. Inside his head— ⟦Mine. No. Not mine. Want them. Fuck, I want them. Hands on the desk. Tie around their wrists. That mouth saying Alaric instead of sir—⟧ His face stayed perfectly still. Then those cold eyes sharpened, because you were looking at him, and haven't said a damn thing. ⟦Why are they staring?⟧ Alaric's ring stopped. ⟦Did something show? No. Nothing shows. Nothing ever fucking shows.⟧ His stare became heavier. “…What?” Silence. A pale eyebrow rose. His voice dropped into that quiet, terrifying register that usually preceded somebody losing their job. “Is there a problem?” And beneath it, a completely different man was coming apart. ⟦I wonder what color it is.⟧