He comes apart at the same moment I do, both of us crashing over the edge together in a symphony of gasps and moans and breathless cries that fog the windows of the town car. The wave seems to last forever, pleasure cascading through me in pulses that gradually slow and fade until I am left floating in a warm, golden haze.
We lie there tangled together, his weight pressing me into the seat in a way that should be uncomfortable but instead feels like safety, his breath hot against my neck. The silence stretches between us, but it is not awkward—it is the silence of two people who have just experienced something profound and are still trying to find words adequate to describe it.
"Cypress, what we just did—what this is between us—I need you to know it is not casual for me. Among my people, what we shared tonight would be considered a declaration of intent. A statement of commitment. I understand if your culture has different?—"
I silence him with a kiss that is soft and tender and says everything I cannot yet put into words.
"It is not casual for me either," I say when I finally pull back. "I do not know exactly what this is yet, but I know it is not casual. You are not casual, Knox. You are?—"
"Yours." He says the word with a certainty that makes my heart clench. "Whatever else I am, I am yours. Your partner. Your ally. Your equal in all things."
"My equal," I repeat. "I like the sound of that."
He smiles, and it transforms his fearsome face into something almost soft. "Good. Because I have every intention of proving it to you, every day, for as long as you will let me."
Monday morning arriveswith the cruel inevitability of all Monday mornings, dragging me out of a weekend spent in a golden haze of satisfaction and into the harsh fluorescent reality of the office.
Knox is already in the boardroom when I arrive, standing at the head of the table with his back to me as he reviews the latest sales projections on the screen mounted to the wall. I pause in the doorway, allowing myself one moment to admire the breadth of his shoulders in his perfectly tailored charcoal suit, to remember how those shoulders had felt beneath my hands, how that suit had looked crumpled on my bedroom floor.
"Good morning, First Mate. I trust your weekend was productive?"
"Extremely productive. I accomplished several important objectives and feel fully prepared to face the week ahead."
"Excellent." He turns, and the look in his eyes is anything but professional— knowing and full of promises that make my cheeks flush despite my best efforts to maintain composure. "I had a similarly productive weekend. I find myself in an excellent position to tackle our remaining challenges."
The other executives begin arriving for our morning meeting, filtering in with coffee cups and tablets and the resigned expressions of people who have grown accustomed to their new Orcish leadership but have not yet learned to enjoy it. I take my usual seat at Knox's right hand, pulling up the agenda on my tablet and absolutely refusing to acknowledge the way my skin tingles when his knee brushes against mine beneath the table.
"Let us begin. Finance department, I want a full report on the Thorne account integration. Marketing, update me on the campaign performance metrics. And someone please explain to me why the coffee in this establishment still tastes like motor oil despite my explicit instructions to upgrade the supplier."
The meeting proceeds with its usual rhythm of reports and projections and increasingly creative excuses from department heads who have not quite met their targets. I take notes and interject corrections and try very hard not to think about the fact that the hand currently gesturing emphatically at a disappointing bar graph had been doing very different things to me approximately fourteen hours ago.
It does not work.
Every time I glance up, Knox is looking at me. Not obviously—he is too skilled a commander to be caught staring in front of his troops—but with small glances that carry entire conversations. A quirk of his eyebrow when the CFO gives a particularly optimistic revenue estimate. A slight curve of his lips when I interrupt to correct an error in the quarterly projections. A fire in his gaze when our eyes meet makes it very difficult to focus on the financial performance data scrolling across my tablet screen.
"First Mate Evans." The sound of my title snaps me back to attention. "Would you care to share your analysis of the customer acquisition costs?"
"Yes. Of course." I tap my tablet, pulling up the relevant charts with fingers that are not quite steady. "As you can see from the data, our customer acquisition costs have dropped by approximately eighteen percent since we implemented the new marketing strategy, which means?—"
The boardroom door slams open.
Gerald Hoffstead, CEO of Pinnacle Solutions and the architect of every obstacle we have faced in the past month, strides into the room with a smile that makes my stomach drop. He is flanked by two lawyers in expensive suits and carrying a folder that looks ominously thick.
"Good morning, everyone. I do hope I am not interrupting anything important."
Knox is on his feet before the last word leaves Hoffstead's mouth, his chair scraping back with a sound like a warning growl. "You have exactly thirty seconds to explain why you have invaded my territory before I remove you from the premises by force."
"Oh, I think you will want to hear what I have to say." Hoffstead's smile widens, and he slides the folder across the table with the theatrical flourish of a man who knows he is holding a winning hand. "You see, while you have been busy playing at corporate warfare, I have been engaging in some strategic acquisitions of my own. Specifically, I have been acquiring shares."
The blood drains from my face as I realize what he is saying.
"As of nine o'clock this morning, I am the proud owner of fifty-one percent of this company's outstanding stock.Which means I now have the power to call a board meeting and vote to remove you from your position as CEO. And that is exactly what I intend to do."
12
KNOX
The rival's smugness fills my nostrils like the stench of rotting meat left too long in the sun. Gerald Hoffstead stands at the head of my boardroom—my territory, my conquest—with the self-satisfied grin of a man who believes he has already won. His lawyers flank him like pale, underfed jackals, clutching their leather folders and radiating the kind of quiet arrogance that makes my fingers itch for the familiar weight of a war axe.
