The vampire in the corner office

Mia Bennett was three minutes into her interview when she started sweating through her only blazer. "Tell me," said the woman behind the desk, not looking up from her tablet, "why should Voss Global hire someone with zero corporate experience?" "Because I once talked a landlord out of evicting forty people in one building," Mia said. "If I can do that, I can definitely fetch coffee." The woman — Diane Whitfield, according to the nameplate — finally looked up. Her expression suggested she was deciding whether to laugh or call security. "The position is executive assistant to Mr. Voss," Diane said. "Not everyone survives it." "Survives it?" "His last assistant lasted six days." Mia should have asked why. She didn't, because rent was due in four days and her mother's hospital bill was due in seven, and beggars don't interview the landlord's dog. "I'll take my chances," Mia said. That was how, two hours later, Mia found herself wandering the top floor of Voss Tower at eight p.m., lost, looking for a bathroom, when she pushed open a door marked PRIVATE and found her new boss with blood on his mouth. He was standing at the window, jacket off, sleeves rolled, and there was a thin red line running from the corner of his lips to his jaw, like he'd been drinking something dark and hadn't bothered to wipe it away. Mia froze. He turned. Their eyes met. His were the color of wet slate, and for one full second they seemed to glow faintly amber before settling back to gray. "You saw nothing," he said. Mia looked at the blood. Looked at him. Looked at the blood again. "Sir," she said, "you're literally standing there with blood dripping down your chin." Something flickered across his face — not embarrassment, not anger. Calculation. "What's your name?" "Mia. Mia Bennett. I start Monday. Well — I started twenty minutes ago, actually, since apparently I'm now witnessing whatever this is." He crossed the room faster than she registered him moving, and suddenly he was close enough that she could smell copper and cedar and something colder underneath, like the inside of a refrigerator. "Mia Bennett," he repeated, low, testing the name like it meant something. "You're going to forget what you saw." "I really don't think I am." "You will." "Is that a threat?" He studied her — really studied her, the way you'd study a puzzle piece that didn't belong to the box you thought you were holding. "No," he said finally, and something like surprise crossed his face, as if the answer surprised even him. "It's a request." Mia's heart was hammering so hard she was sure he could hear it. Actually — judging by the way his gaze flicked, briefly, to her throat — he probably could. "Okay," she said, backing toward the door. "I'm going to go. I'm going to go home, and tomorrow I'm going to pretend this was a stress hallucination caused by unemployment." "Good." "Also you should probably wipe your chin. Sir." He didn't move. She left anyway, heart pounding, blazer sweat-soaked, absolutely certain of exactly one thing: she was never getting that job. She was wrong.