"That clause," he says slowly, "applies to hostile takeovers that result in employee displacement. This was a board-approved acquisition."
"No, it wasn't." I flip to the third page of the foreclosure notice and tap my finger against a specific paragraph. "Your own documentation states that the acquisition was completed via emergency shareholder vote triggered by imminent insolvency. That's a Section 12 hostile action, which means Section 14's protections apply regardless of whether the previous board technically approved the transfer. Your lawyers should have caught that. Maybe you need to reconsider your retainer arrangements."
Behind me, Knox makes a sound that I can only describe as a rumble of pure, unadulterated satisfaction, the kind of noise that a large predator might make when watching a smaller predator successfully defend territory against an intruder. The sound vibrates through the air and settles somewhere in my lower spine, warm and unsettling in ways I absolutely do not have time to examine right now.
Ashworth's mask of smug confidence has cracked completely, revealing something harder and colder underneath, the face of a man who did not become a corporate predator by accepting defeat gracefully. "Thirty days, you think you can turn this disaster around in thirty days? This company has been hemorrhaging money for eighteen months. The client base is eroding, the infrastructure is crumbling, and your new boss doesn't even understand how human tax codes work."
"I understand enough. I understand that you came here expecting an easy victory, and instead you have found a fortress defended by warriors who know the terrain better than you anticipated. I understand that thirty days is more than sufficient time to rally our forces and demonstrate the profitability you believe impossible. And I understand that when thosethirty days have passed and this company stands victorious, your foreclosure notice will make excellent kindling for the ceremonial fire in which I burn the remnants of your ambition."
Ashworth's jaw tightens, but he does not retreat. Instead, his eyes move from Knox's face to mine, and something calculating flickers in their depths. "Thirty days, then. I look forward to watching you fail, Miss Evans. And when you do, when this whole enterprise collapses under its own incompetence, remember that I offered you a way out. Ashworth Financial is always looking for talented accountants who understand the value of backing the winning side."
The implication lands like a slap, the suggestion that I might abandon Knox and this disaster of a company for a position with his firm, and I feel my spine stiffen with an anger that surprises me with its intensity. "I'll keep that in mind," I say flatly. "Now get out of our records room. Some of us have work to do."
For a long moment, Ashworth doesn't move. His eyes flick between me and Knox, assessing, calculating, and I can almost see the gears turning behind his artificially smooth forehead as he recalibrates his strategy. Then he smiles again, but it's a different smile this time, sharper and more dangerous. "Thirty days," he repeats, and turns on his heel, his lawyers falling into step behind him like well-trained hunting dogs.
The sound of their footsteps fades down the hallway, and I don't realize I've been holding my breath until it rushes out of me in a long, shaky exhale that leaves my knees feeling distinctly unreliable.
"VALKYRIE!
The word explodes out of Knox with enough force to rattle the filing cabinets, and before I can process what's happening, his green hands are clamping down on my shoulders with a grip that should probably be painful but somehow manages to land on the exact line between overwhelming and supportive.His face is inches from mine, I can see the intricate patterns of his braided tusks and the way his golden eyes are practically incandescent with what I can only describe as gleeful battle fervor.
"A valkyrie of commerce!" he bellows, and the grin splitting his face is so wide that I can count every one of his very large, very sharp teeth. "A chooser of the profit-slain! You have faced down an enemy warrior in his moment of perceived triumph and turned his own weapons against him! This is the kind of tactical brilliance that songs are written about! When I return to my clan's great hall, your name will be carved into the Wall of Honored Allies alongside the greatest financial minds of our generation!"
"I just cited a bylaw. It's not that impressive. Anyone with a legal background could have?—"
"Anyone with a legal background did NOT," Knox interrupts, giving my shoulders a little shake that makes my teeth click together. "Those fancy lawyers standing behind Ashworth like decorative shields, they did not catch this bylaw. Your former CEO, who signed the documents that allowed this debt to accumulate, he did not catch this bylaw. Only you, my brilliant First Mate, had the wisdom and the courage to identify the weakness in the enemy's formation and exploit it without hesitation!"
He releases my shoulders only to step back and throw his arms wide, nearly knocking over a precarious stack of filing boxes in the process. "This calls for celebration! In my clan, such a victory would be honored with three days of feasting and ritual combat! But we do not have three days, so instead we will honor your triumph by immediately beginning our strategic counteroffensive!"
My face feels hot, and I'm acutely aware that my heart is pounding in a way that has nothing to do with the confrontationwith Ashworth and everything to do with the way Knox just called me brilliant like the was simply an objective fact rather than a compliment.
"We need a workspace. Somewhere we can spread out the financial documents and start building a profit strategy. The main conference room is probably still occupied by my unconscious former boss, and the executive offices are going to be crawling with confused middle management for the rest of the day."
Knox nods sharply, his braids swinging with the motion. "A war room. Yes. An excellent priority. Where in this building can we establish a secure command center?"
I think rapidly, mentally cataloging the building's layout and trying to identify any space that might offer privacy and sufficient surface area for the kind of document-intensive planning we're going to need. "There's a temporary office on the third floor," I say slowly. "It was supposed to be converted into additional storage, but the renovation got delayed when the budget cuts hit. It's small, but it has a desk, a working lamp, and most importantly, a door that locks."
"Lead the way, First Mate."
The temporary office turns out to be even smaller than I remembered, a converted supply closet that someone optimistically furnished with a battered desk, two mismatched chairs, and a single filing cabinet that looks like it survived the Cold War. The overhead light doesn't work, but there's a desk lamp that casts a warm yellow glow over the cramped space, and the door does indeed have a functioning lock, which feels increasingly important given the chaos currently consuming the rest of the building.
The problem is that the office was designed for one person of average human size, and Knox Bloodaxe is neither one person nor of average human size. When he steps through the doorway,his shoulders brush both sides of the frame, and once he's inside, his presence seems to fill every available cubic inch of air. The desk that looked reasonably sized when I was imagining myself working alone at it now looks like dollhouse furniture next to his frame, and when he lowers himself into one of the chairs, it creaks ominously in a way that suggests it is deeply unhappy about this new arrangement.
"Cozy," Knox says, and the word sounds utterly sincere despite the fact that his knees are pressed against the desk and his elbow keeps brushing against the filing cabinet every time he moves his arm.
I squeeze past him to reach the other chair, and in the narrow space between his body and the wall, my hip grazes against his thigh. The contact lasts less than a second, but it sends a jolt of awareness up my spine that settles somewhere behind my sternum and refuses to dissipate. His leg is warm through the fabric of his obviously custom-tailored trousers, warm and solid and impossibly large, and I find myself suddenly very conscious of the fact that his thigh is approximately the circumference of my entire torso.
"Sorry," I mutter, dropping into my chair with more force than strictly necessary. "There's not a lot of room to maneuver in here."
"You need not apologize." Knox shifts in his seat, and his knee bumps against mine under the desk. He doesn't move it. "Close quarters breed efficiency. In battle, warriors often fight shoulder to shoulder, their movements synchronized by necessity rather than planning. This office will serve a similar purpose."
Shoulder to shoulder is not the phrase I would use to describe our current proximity. His shoulder is approximately at the level of my head, and when he leans forward to examine the documents I've spread across the desk, his arm brushesagainst mine with a friction that I can feel through both layers of our clothing. The scent of him fills the small space, something woodsy and metallic and distinctly non-human that shouldn't be as appealing as it is, and I find myself having to actively focus on the numbers in front of me rather than the way his braided tusks catch the lamplight when he turns his head.
"The first priority is identifying existing revenue streams," I say, dragging my attention back to the task at hand with an effort that borders on heroic. "We need to know exactly what this company produces and who's buying it before we can figure out how to make any of it profitable within the next thirty days."
Knox nods, his attention shifting to the spreadsheets. His hand reaches for one of the documents at the same moment mine does, and our fingers collide over the quarterly report, his green digits brushing against my much smaller ones in a contact that lingers a beat longer than accidental.
"Forgive me," he says, but he doesn't sound sorry. His golden eyes meet mine, and there's something in them that I can't quite identify, something warm and assessing and entirely too focused on my face.
