Deadlifts. Presses. Intervals until my heart pounds like a war drum. Magnus the Minotaur wants indulgence, endless taking, endless grind. But Magnus Trainor, CEO of Labyrinth Solutions, does not indulge—not in public,not carelessly. He channels. He controls. He takes refuge in the private bathroom of his office.
By six thirty, I’ve showered and dressed in a charcoal suit sharp enough to cut glass. My hands move through the familiar motions of the tie—loop, pull, tighten, straighten. A ceremony, not a struggle. Presentation is part of the strategy.
I study myself in the mirror. Jacket tailored within an inch of its life, shirt starched, tie knotted cleanly beneath the curve of bone. Even my pants are custom—zipper cleverly designed to give my tail access without compromising the fit. To anyone else, I look composed. To me, it’s armor. The world doesn’t need to know how much energy I’ve burned off already, or how much more hums beneath the surface, waiting. They’ll see a man in full control.
I smooth my lapels, square my shoulders, and head out. Judy, my sweet, infallible admin, will have an oat milk latte waiting by the time I arrive. She always does.
At seven sharp, she’s already outside my office, the very picture of human efficiency. She’s been with me for a decade and knows me better than anyone: the brisk tone, the steady eyes, the way her hands never linger when she sets the latte in front of me. A kindness wrapped in professionalism. A rhythm we’ve perfected.
“Morning,” she says, her warm tawny skin glowing under the fluorescent lights.
“Morning, Judy.” I take the coffee. Sip. The bitter edge blunts the other hunger gnawing at me. Barely.
She reviews my schedule, immaculate as always. “You’ve got finance at nine, Franklin at eleven, a board lunch at one, and Vanessa at three.”
“Noted.”
Her gaze flicks over me. She sees the tension in my shoulders—I know she does—but she never comments. I’ve grown protective of her. She keeps my world orderly, and I keep her safe.
“Another latte?” she asks, already holding it out.
“What would I do without you?”
“Certainly not spend your day fetching oat milk lattes from the coffee stand in the lobby.”
I smile at her. The one I’ve practiced in the mirror. Tidy. Wide and welcoming but softened around the edges—an attempt to look approachable, not overpowering.
The caffeine doesn’t really soothe me—it’s no substitute for what my body demands—but it's a ritual, like the alarm. Like the iron. Structure over chaos.
My office is order incarnate: black walnut desk, leather-bound ledgers, shelves arranged with mathematical precision. Obsidian sculptures, one for each fiscal year since the merger. Success has a texture. And it requires polishing.
By nine thirty, after a bevy of calls and emails, I’m restless again. Numbers blur, projections dissolve. My body hums with contained energy, coiled tight. I’ve ducked into the private bathroom off my office once already to… take care of things. It’s just enough to take the edge off. Functional, mechanical. A chore.
But the thought of Vanessa being unprepared gnawsat me. She’s sharp, but she can be scatterbrained. This account is too important. It’s not just PR—it’s PR forthe city. Our city. Sure, I want this win for Labyrinth Solutions, but it feels personal. I want the chance to show how collaboration and differences can continue to make Crownpoint stronger, how our city thrives on what everyone brings to the table. It’s what I built the company on. I head down to make sure she’s ready for this afternoon.
The walk through the executive floor is the same as always. Heads turn. Conversations stutter. They think I don’t notice, but I do. The flush of cheeks, the way spines straighten, the quickening of breath as I pass.
Maybe it’s the horns. Maybe the title. Perhaps a little of both. I keep my tail calm and try not to dissect it. Everyone seems to feel it. The pull. The gravity.
I keep my expression warm but professional, greeting by name. “Morning, Lyle. Good work on those projections.” I smile. Nod. Pat a few shoulders. “Thank you, Ms. Ortega, I’ll review that later.” Every word is carefully measured. Encouraging but never intimate. I let them bask in the fire's warmth without ever letting them get too close to the flame.
Because closeness would burn.
By the time I reach Vanessa’s office, I’ve settled back into the mask. Smooth. Controlled. Ready to tease her about preparedness, perhaps to offer reassurance. I lift my hand to the door and push it open.
“Vanessa—”
But she isn’t here.
Someone else sits behind her desk.
A man. Young and lean, his pale skin set off by neatly kept brown hair and round glasses framing steady brown eyes. On paper, he’s ordinary. But the way all his features come together makes him unexpectedly striking. His sleeves are rolled precisely to the elbow, papers squared before him as though this office has always been his. Vanessa’s chair dwarfs him. It’s hard to tell while he’s seated, but I’d guess he’s not even six feet tall. Then his gaze lifts to mine—wide for a heartbeat—and that flicker of surprise betrays him.
I stop. The shades are open, sunlight flooding the room, streaks cascading across his face, catching on flushed cheekbones. My nostrils flare and catch his scent. Anxious. Unsure. Ripe. Delicious.
For a split second, the air shifts. The world tilts.
The pull hits me like a body check. Not subtle. Not gentle. And then—dammit—my tail swishes once, hard and fast, slapping against the office door like a rookie trying to make an entrance. I freeze. Mortified.
