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“I do,” Yordan agreed. “And I know what I’m not.” He glanced back at the secret compartment behind the table. “I’m not flexible.”
“But—”
Yordan cut him off. “Priorities, Scot.” He opened the first page of the diary, but Kit grabbed his arm.
“You’re just as much a priority as this.”
Yordan snorted. “Fairy-created Armageddon?”
“Let’s just say that you’re very high up on my list.”
Yordan visibly gaped at him. “Because Fuse blew up a gator mound?”
“Because you’re not a beta. And after the last eighteen months, we need you to get over your shit and start leading.”
He saw the weight of his words hit Yordan. He watched as the man’s eyes widened and his shoulders stiffened as if he were being threatened. And maybe he was. Wulf, Inc. was massively understaffed. It needed all its people stepping up like never before. Whatever the deal was with Yordan, Kit had made it his mission to figure out.
“You don’t know a damned thing about me,” Yordan countered, his tone angry.
“Maybe not, but I want to.” Understatement of the year.
“Uh-uh. Leave that to the shrink.”
“Uh-uh. This is not something I’m going to delegate.”
Kit stared hard at the man, making sure his intentions were absolutely clear. Yordan was not going to hide from him. Wulf, Inc. needed him desperately, but more than that, Kit wanted to find out what drove the man. What were his secrets? What were his loves?
And then, maybe, he would know if his obsession with the guy was built on fantasy or something a lot more interesting.
CHAPTER 7
When Is a Diary Not a Diary?
This was fucking crazy.
Coffee could be alive, thanks to some fairy deal. Odds were he was in some fairy prison helping a psycho fae cause havoc on the human world. That’s what fairies did after all. And yet, all Yordan could do was stare at The Scot and ache.
The man wanted to know him. He had just declared his intention to rip into Yordan’s guts to figure out what was holding him back, what was screwing him up, and what was making him want. And Yordan was so damn lonely and confused that that sounded good to him. At least someone cared to look, right?
No one thinks you’re a fuckup, least of all me.
McNabb was his boss’s boss. If this had been a simple dressing down by a superior, then Yordan could handle it. It wasn’t the first time the higher-ups had wanted to chew his ass out for one thing or another. But The Scot was a different kind of higher-up.
Apparently, The Scot cared.
No one thinks you’re a fuckup, least of all me.
Yordan shouldn’t need that kind of reassurance. It shouldn’t slide into his gut and make him want to roll belly up, but it did. Not just because of the words but because McNabb had said it.
It was his eyes that clinched the deal. To feel the man’s focused attention was like a strobe light aimed straight at his soul. Yordan wanted it. Damn it, he craved it. But it also left him feeling exposed and so vulnerable that he wanted to run. He knew he had skills above the usual meathead, but damn it, he’d also screwed up. He was much better at pointing out the flaws in other people’s plans than crafting the plan in the first place.
All those thoughts ran through his head while he stood there locking gazes with The Scot. His heart lurched, his lips tingled, and his cock thickened until it was a distracting throb.
He watched the man’s eyes widen as the biological message got through. He saw his nostrils flare as he swallowed. Just how big was The Scot’s dick? Inquiring minds wanted to know. And hands and mouths and …
He slammed the cage door on all those thoughts so loud he felt the clang. Discipline! Order! It was the only way to survive, and damn it, thinking about banging your boss’s boss was not the way to a successful career. And given that Yordan was nothing without Wulf, Inc., he was not in a position to toy with any of the thoughts that were spinning in his brain. Or suggested by his dick.
And yet, he wasn’t the first one to look away. The Scot suddenly seemed awkward as he lifted the stack of spiral-bound notebooks up between them and tried to speak.
