I only catch a glimpse of the controlled tension in his stride, the way his sturdy thighs strain against what I’m guessing is imported wool. His tail swishes just slightly with each step, and I swear my stomach lurches. He moves with a barely contained energy that could topple walls if he were so inclined, and somehow, my brain refuses to focus on anything else.
I stare after him, mind buzzing. Did that just happen? Did Magnus Trainor, the CEO, get flustered because of me?
I shuffle back to the chair he occupied moments before and sink into it, his warmth still evident in the leather as I glide a hand over it. My mind is a whirlwind: I’m supposed to be taking notes, managing the campaign pitch in Vanessa’s absence, keeping everything under control. Instead, all I can think about is the heat of his tail’s accidental brush and the almost imperceptible way he tried to mask his reaction.
I sit alone and let my thoughts drift.
I imagine what it would be like to actually work with him—not just in stolen glances when delivering mail, buthere, sharing space, sharing ideas. He knows I’m from the mailroom now, but he thinks I’m a junior strategist. Maybe I can prove that I’m supposed to be here. Maybe I can impress him enough that he stops seeing me simply as Vanessa’s fill-in and starts seeing me as someone he actually wants on his team.
And maybe he won’t be able to keep his reaction under wraps every time I’m near.
I shake my head, trying to get a grip. Focus. Amara’s words repeat in my head. Professionalism first. But even as I straighten the stack of files, I can’t deny the rush from our brief contact, the brush that should have meant nothing but somehow left me warm, aware, and attempting to calm the raging boner in my pants.
I read over Vanessa’s notes. Her slogans for the pitch are… creative. “Got Monster?” and “Horn to be Wild” are particularly interesting choices. I jot down a few alternatives and rehearse what I’ll say during our meeting tomorrow. Client projections. Outreach strategies. Potential risks. I run through my points aloud in a low whisper, smoothing over every “um” and “I think” until it feels polished enough. And yet, no matter how professional I make it, the image of him—the keen curve of his horns, the controlled tilt of his shoulders, the warmth that radiates from his entire body—keeps intruding.
I glance at the door, half-expecting him to storm back in, realize I’m not who he thinks I am, and bolt again. But he doesn’t. The office remains quiet, save for the faint buzz of the city outside and the occasional squeak of mychair as I shift, willing my erection to calm the fuck down.
I let out a shaky breath and mutter to myself, trying to reclaim some composure. “Only until I prove myself.” The mantra tastes thin in my mouth, but it’s the only way I can justify the lie. I’m in Vanessa’s office, commanding a space I don’t truly belong in. But I can make it work. I will make it work. If I want a chance at more, I have to.
I lean back, fingers drumming lightly on the desk, and allow a small smirk. He’s impressed. That’s what he said. Magnus Trainor, the CEO, is impressed with my ideas. No need to wait another year to be eligible for the program. That’s a victory. A foot in the door. A validation I’ve waited years for.
And somehow, even in my excitement, a shiver of anticipation rolls through me. Tomorrow at our next meeting… he’ll see more of me. The real me. And then, maybe, the stakes get higher. Not just for the company, not just for the potential campaign, but for the subtle pull that neither of us can—or perhaps wants to—ignore.
4
HANDS-ON LEADERSHIP
MAGNUS
Being the CEO,I mostly avoid eye contact with folks in the hallway. Hard to tell if it’s intimidation, executive habit, or just the fact that my horns make direct eye contact feel like a jousting match. But I thought I recognized that ass—it used to push the mail cart down the halls. Now it’ll be walking into my office tomorrow morning. From mailroom to junior strategist—ambition looks good on him.
I expected Vanessa, not Jamie. And definitely not Jamie being this damn cute. Apparently, according to my tail, adorable junior strategists are my kryptonite.
By the time I bolt out of Vanessa’s office, I’m already half bent forward, jacket tugged tight across my midsection.People call my name in the hall, but I wave them off, muttering something that probably sounds like a growl.
“Magnus! You okay?” someone calls from a few doors down—Clyde from marketing, if I’m not mistaken. His voice balances on the edge of concern and curiosity, the way krakens so often do.
“Fine,” I snap without looking, which is technically the truth. Fine in the sense that the internal chaos surging inside is entirely my own business.
A serpent man I don’t recognize—probably a new hire—waves weakly. “Sir… Do you need… a hand?”
I shake my head. “I’ve got it. Thanks.” And I keep walking, trying not to notice how my jacket rides a little too tight across my shoulders, how my horns brush the doorway frame, and my tail flaps uncontrollably. I can feel their eyes on me, but I can’t stop. Focus, Magnus. Focus.
“Coffee?” someone else calls, probably a delivery from downstairs. I blink at them, momentarily disoriented, before shaking my head again. “Later.” Judy will have another oat milk latte waiting, anyway.
The hallway stretches ahead, but it feels like a gauntlet. I dodge and weave past startled coworkers, trying to maintain the veneer of professionalism while my brain is doing anything but. I’m aware of the faint scent of wood and leather from my suit, the faint pull of adrenaline, and the maddening image of Jamie Torres sitting behind Vanessa’s desk—hands neat on the papers, eyes wide with polite competence.
Judy frowns as I barrel past her desk, her hand frozenmid-tap on the keyboard. “Uh… more stomach issues?” she ventures carefully.
“Exactly,” I say, voice clipped, and keep moving. It’s the lie I’ve told her since she started working for me. It’s easier than the truth.
“Would you like another latte? Or maybe a… ginger ale?”
She rummages through her desk. “I may have some calcium carbonate tablets.”
I snap my head toward her, heart thudding. “Yes. Thank you, Judy.”
“Which?”
