“Yes, the brought-up-from-the-basement perspective.” She laughs, and my skin crawls at the sound. “But listen, Jamie-poo. There will likely be more meetings. Lots of meetings. Let’s not tell Magnus more than he needs to know. As far as he’s concerned, I’m sick.”
“But you are sick. Don’t you have some new virus?”
She lets out a small cough. “Not exactly.” Her voice drops conspiratorially. “Listen, you’re on Team Voss now, so I need you to know everything: I’m not sick. No mysterious new virus for me. I’m actually in Transylvania at a spa for the week, getting my teeth done. Flew in last night. And boy are my arms tired.”
I laugh at her attempt at a joke.
“No, sweetie,” she continues. “Literally. Why would I pay for first-class when I can just zip over on my own? Anyway, apparently this is what happens when you miss your three-hundred-year checkup with the dentist… twice. I chipped a fang on… let’s just say an ill-advised midnight snack. And before you panic, yes, of course it was bagged blood from the blood bank. I don’t do the messy, illegal, morally bankrupt stuff. Please.” She scoffs. “I have standards.”
I blink at my phone, trying to imagine Vanessa reclining in a marble chair at some ultra-luxe vampire dental spa. “Right… okay. And your tooth is… okay?”
“Itwillbe,” she says breezily. “But I simply cannot show up looking asymmetrical. The tragedy of it. Now, be a darling and handle Magnus for me. I should be back in a week. Two, if they try to upsell me on whitening.”
Handle Magnus.
“Vanessa, I can’t—he’s the CEO. He’ll expect?—”
“Confidence,” she interrupts. “Now go. Chin up. Chest out. Lip balm. Pomade. Deodorant. Whatever you young people do. Bye, sweetie!”
The call cuts out, and I’m left staring at my phone.
“She wants me to cover a meeting. With Magnus.”
Greg whistles low. “The big Minotaur himself.”
Amara pats my arm with a talon. “Listen, he’s stoic, but sweet. Clear, but kind. Everyone adores him. Plus, he’s… magnetic as hell.” She stares off for a moment before shaking her body, feathers fluttering. “And remember: no extracurriculars. Even if he’s seven-foot-two with eyes that make you forget your own name.”
I manage a weak smile. “Right. No drooling. I got this.”
My stomach’s in knots as I head for the elevator. The air on the executive floor hits different—crisper, colder. Like they’re pumping in pure oxygen and the scent of money. I pass the small admin desk I’ll occupy when Vanessa returns and enter her office. The room radiates sleek menace—shades drawn tight, desk polished obsidian, chairs upholstered in blood-red leather. It feels less like an office and more like a throne room. Even the air is heavy, still, like it’s desperate for her return.
I hover by the blackout curtains, nerves buzzing. Itfeels wrong to touch anything in here, like I’ve snuck into a dragon’s lair. Which makes no sense. Mr. Lang’s office is down the hall. But then I use the remote on her desk to open the shades, and sunlight spills in. The gloom breaks apart, revealing the gleam of the Crownpoint skyline outside and throwing golden highlights across the glossy desk.
I straighten a stack of files, line up the pens, and settle into the crimson chair. For a second, I see myself reflected in the glass—definitely an imposter—but my pulse quickens with something that feels suspiciously like excitement. Vanessa’s den or not, until she returns, it’s mine.
The door creaks open.
“Vanessa?” a voice rumbles, low and rich. My stomach, still recovering from the sudden news of being transferred up here, takes another tumble.
I look up. And there he is.
Magnus Trainor.
The big boss in the flesh—massive shoulders filling the doorway, a charcoal suit stretched just enough to contain all that muscle, fur peeking out from his collar and sleeves. His ivory horns catch the light under the recessed lights, and deep, dark brown eyes land on me. His brow furrows, and I catch a glimpse of his tail swishing behind him.
“Oh,” he says, voice deep enough to rattle the desk. “You’re not Vanessa.”
And just like that, I forget how to breathe.
2
A VERY HUMAN RESOURCE
MAGNUS
My eyes are already wideopen when the alarm slices through the dark at 4:45 a.m. I don’t need it—my body wakes on its own, trained to precision—but I let it ring once before I swing my legs out of bed. Rituals and routines rule.
By five, I’m in the gym of my building. Iron plates clang, sweat dampens my fur, and the rhythm of exertion steadies me. I’ve learned over the years that discipline is my only salvation. Work my body until it trembles, and maybe I’ll think less about the other ways it demands release.
