Claimed By Desire

Screw Him.

Amara.

I regret everything.

Standing outside the sleek glass building that houses Thorne Industries, clutching my coffee like a lifeline, I'm seriously considering turning around and never coming back.

The podcast went live at 6 AM. It's now 8:47, and I've gotten fifteen text messages, eighty-four notifications on social media, and three missed calls from Gracie, who apparently listened to it on her morning run and is now deeply concerned about my mental state.

Maybe she should be.

What the hell was I thinking last night? Recording a thinly veiled attack on my boss and putting it out into the world for everyone—including him—to hear?

I might as well have painted a target on my back and signed my own termination papers.

Ugh!

It was supposed to be empowering. A takedown of manipulative power structures. A subtle middle finger to the man I couldn’t stop thinking about

But even knowing how reckless it was, I can't bring myself to take it down. Because every word I said was true, even if I was too much of a coward to say his name directly.

The lobby feels different this morning. Or maybe I'm different. The security guard who usually gives me a polite nod seems to be watching me more carefully. The elevator ride to the fifteenth floor feels like ascending to my own execution.

My hands are steady as I badge into the office, but my heart is hammering against my ribs. I keep my eyes fixed straight ahead as I walk to my desk, refusing to look toward the glass wall that separates me from Lucien's office.

But I can feel him watching me.

The sensation is so strong it's almost physical—like a touch between my shoulder blades, raising every hair on my arms. I force myself to power up my computer, to go through the motions of starting my day as if nothing has changed.

As if I didn't spend last night declaring war on the man who signs my paychecks.

"Good morning, Miss Williams."

His voice cuts through the morning quiet like a blade. I look up to find him standing in the doorway of his office, one shoulder leaning against the frame with casual elegance.

He's wearing a charcoal suit that probably costs more than my rent, and his dark hair is perfectly styled despite the early hour.

He looks... amused.

That's what terrifies me most. Not anger, not irritation, but genuine amusement, like I've done something that entertains him rather than offends him.

"Good morning, Mr. Thorne," I manage, pleased that my voice sounds steadier than I feel.

"I trust you slept well?" There's something in his tone—a subtle emphasis that makes my stomach drop. He knows. Of course, he knows.

"Like a baby," I lie smoothly, even though I spent most of the night tossing and turning, replaying our conversation and second-guessing every word of the podcast.

"Excellent." He steps fully into the outer office, moving with that predatory grace that I noticed on my first day. "I have some time this morning. Would you mind joining me in my office? There are a few things I'd like to discuss."

It's phrased as a question, but we both know it's not really a request.

"Of course." I grab my tablet and notepad, buying myself a few seconds to compose my expression into something professional and unaffected.

I can do this. I can sit in his office, take whatever lecture or termination speech he has planned, and maintain my dignity.

I've faced down online bullies and over-entitled men before. One mysterious boss shouldn't be able to reduce me to a nervous wreck.

But as I follow him into his office, breathing in that subtle cologne that somehow makes me think of midnight forests and things too shameful to admit, I'm not sure I believe my own pep talk.

He gestures to the chair across from his desk—not the conference table where we usually meet, but the more intimate setting where I'll be directly in his line of sight with nowhere to hide.

"Coffee?" he offers, moving to the sideboard where an expensive-looking machine gleams in the morning light.

"I have some, thank you." I hold up my travel mug like a shield.

"Ah yes, I can see that." His eyes flick to my cup with what might be disapproval. "From the place on Fifth Street, isn't it? You stop there every morning on your way in."

The casual observation sends a chill down my spine. How does he know where I get my coffee? Has he been watching my routine that closely?

"It's convenient," I say carefully.

"I'm sure it is." He pours himself something from a different machine—espresso, from the smell of it. "Though I think you'd find the coffee here much better. More... satisfying."

The way he says "satisfying" makes my pulse quicken, though I can't pinpoint why.

He settles behind his desk, cradling the small cup in hands that are too elegant for a man who clearly works out regularly. Everything about him is a contradiction—refined but dangerous, civilized but wild.

"I listened to your podcast this morning," he says without preamble.

My heart stops. Just stops, like someone pressed a pause button on my entire cardiovascular system.

"Oh?" I somehow manage to sound merely politely interested. "Which episode?"

His smile is sharp enough to cut glass. "The most recent one. Posted at 6 AM, I believe? Something about workplace intimidation and... what was the phrase... 'psychological warfare.'"

Heat floods my cheeks, but I force myself to meet his gaze. "It's an important topic. Women deal with these issues every day."

"Indeed they do." He takes a sip of his espresso, never breaking eye contact. "I found your insights particularly... illuminating. Especially your thoughts on men who use 'mind games and power plays' to manipulate women."

Ok, I think I'm going to throw up. Or pass out. Or both.

"I speak from research and interviews with affected women," I say, grateful that my voice isn't shaking. "It's more common than people think."

"Oh, I don't doubt that at all." He sets down his cup with deliberate precision. "Tell me, in your research, have you found that these women ever... misinterpret the situation? Perhaps mistake genuine interest for manipulation?"

The question hangs in the air between us like a loaded gun.

"Genuine interest?" I repeat, my professional mask is starting to slip. "Is that what you call having your... meetings... where employees can see exactly what you're doing?"

The words are out before I can stop them, more accusatory than I intended. His eyebrows rise slightly, and I realize I've just admitted to watching, to caring, to being affected by what I saw.

"Ah." His voice drops to something lower, more intimate. "So we're talking about yesterday."

I lift my chin, refusing to back down now that I've already shown my hand. "I'm talking about appropriate workplace behavior."

"Are you?" He leans forward slightly, and suddenly the massive desk between us feels like nothing at all. "Because from where I sit, it sounds like you're talking about jealousy."

The word hits like a physical blow. "Excuse me?"

"You watched," he says simply. "Through the glass. You stood up, you paced, you couldn't look away. That's not a professional concern, Miss Williams. That's something else entirely."

My face is on fire now, but I force myself to hold his gaze. "You're mistaken."

"Am I?" He stands slowly, moving around the desk with that same fluid grace. "Tell me, when you made that podcast last night, when you spoke about men who think women are territories to be conquered—were you trying to convince your listeners, or were you trying to convince yourself?"

He's too close now, standing just beside my chair, close enough that I can feel the heat radiating from his body. Every instinct I have is screaming at me to run, but I'm frozen in place.

"You're reading too much into it," I whisper.

"Am I reading too much into the way your pulse is racing right now? The way you're gripping that coffee cup like it's the only thing keeping you grounded?"

I look down and realize he's right—my knuckles are white where I'm clutching my travel mug.

"I'm not intimidated by you," I say, breathless.

"Good." His voice is soft, almost gentle. "Good. I don't want fear. I want honesty."

"About what?"

"About why you really made that podcast. About what you're really running from."

I stand abruptly, needing to put distance between us, but he doesn't step back. If anything, we're closer now, close enough that I have to tilt my head back to meet his eyes.

"I should get back to work," I manage.

"Should you?" His gaze flicks to my lips for just a moment before returning to my eyes. "Or should you stay and finish this conversation we've been dancing around since the moment you walked into my office?"

"We're not dancing around anything. You're my boss, I'm your employee, and that's all there is to it."

"If that's all there is to it," he says quietly, "then why are you trembling?"

I am trembling. I hadn't realized it, but my entire body is vibrating like a live wire, caught between the urge to flee and something else.

"I'm not—"

"You are." His hand moves as if he's going to touch my face, then stops just short, fingers hovering near my cheek. "You've been trembling since you walked in here. The question is—are you trembling because you're afraid of me, or because you're afraid of yourself?"

The question hangs between us, and I realize with crystal clarity that he's right.

I'm not afraid of him.

I'm afraid of how much I want him to close that last inch between us.

I'm afraid of how much I want to stop running.

I'm afraid of how much I want to surrender to whatever this is building between us.

"I..." The word comes out as barely a whisper.

"Yes?" His voice is so gentle, so patient, like he has all the time in the world to wait for me to figure out what I'm trying to say.

But I can't. I can't say what he wants to hear, can't admit what we both know is true. So instead, I do what I do best.

I run.

"I really do need to get back to work," I say, stepping around him toward the door. "Was there anything else you needed to discuss?"

For a long moment, he doesn't answer. When I risk a glance back, he's watching me with something that might be disappointment, or maybe just patience.

"Not at the moment,” he says finally. “But Amara?”

I pause with my hand on the door handle.

“Next time you want to have a conversation with me,” he says with a smile, dimples flashing like they have no business being on a man like him, “you don’t need to broadcast it to the world first. My door is always open.”

I didn't answer. I couldn’t.

I just walk out, heart hammering, legs shaking—every nerve in my body still buzzing from being so close to him.

Fuck me.

I mean screw him.