"Away from witnesses and accountability," I counter, backing toward the door. "Which is exactly why we need to establish ground rules before?—"
"I will teach you the way of the woods, Little Manager. How to build a fire. How to track prey. How to survive in nature."
"I can Google survival tips."
"And the tent." He continues like I haven't spoken, eyes gleaming with promise. "I will teach you many things about tents."
My back hits the door. He cages me in, one hand braced against the frame above my head, not touching but every cell in my body screams for contact.
"Professional boundaries," I remind him. Remind myself.
"During work hours," he agrees. "But a retreat in the woods? That's not work hours, Orla. That's survival. Team building. Corporate synergy."
He's using my own corporate terminology against me, and the worst part is the spark of anticipation igniting low in mybelly at the thought of three days away from this office, from the rules and protocols that keep me locked in place.
Three days in the woods with Thraka.
I'm either going to kill him or completely abandon every principle I've ever held.
Possibly both.
"I hate nature," I inform him.
His grin is pure wickedness. "You'll learn to love it."
8
THRAKA
The wilderness is freedom.
I know this the moment the metal bus rumbles away from the city, leaving behind the concrete cage that humans call civilization. Trees replace buildings. Earth smells replace exhaust fumes. The sky opens up instead of being sliced into rectangles by glass towers.
My body relaxes for the first time since arriving in this strange world of fluorescent lights and ergonomic keyboards.
"You're smiling," Orla observes from beside me. She sits stiffly in the aisle seat, her posture perfect despite the bus's rattling suspension.
"The woods welcome me home." I stretch my arms, my shoulders brushing the ceiling of the bus. The corporate warriors around us clutch their phones like talismans, mourning the loss of cell reception. Weak.
Orla has three color-coded binders spread across her lap. Each one labeled with meticulous precision. Activities. Meal Plans. Emergency Protocols.
"Did you bring the entire office supply closet?" I ask.
"I brought what's necessary for proper retreat coordination." She flips through the Activities binder, making tiny notations with a pen that probably costs more than my suit. "We have twenty-three employees attending. Each requires specific accommodations, dietary restrictions, accessibility needs?—"
"They require fire, shelter, and meat." I lean back, making the bus seat groan in protest. "Everything else is luxury."
"We're not actually surviving in the wilderness, Thraka. This is a structured team-building experience at a licensed facility with—" She stops mid-sentence, eyes widening as she notices the bus seating configuration.
Every seat is full. Packed tight with corporate warriors and their unnecessary luggage.
Chad sits two rows up, already asleep with his mouth hanging open. Drooling. Pathetic.
"There's no empty seats remaining on this entire bus." Orla clutches her three color-coded binders even tighter against her chest, her knuckles whitening as her sharp eyes perform a rapid tactical assessment of the crowded vehicle. She scans every row with a general surveying a battlefield, searching desperately for alternative seating configurations, overlooked options, any solution that doesn't involve what I'm about to suggest.
"I have space." I pat my lap with deliberate emphasis, the sound loud enough to make the corporate warrior in front of us glance back nervously. "Plenty of room here, Little Manager."
The flush that spreads across her cheeks is immediate and spectacular. Pink blooms from her collar up to her perfectly sharp cheekbones, clashing beautifully with her corporate armor. "I'll stand," she declares, her voice tight with that particular flavor of panic that means she's already losing this battle with herself. "For the entire journey. Three hours is perfectly manageable."
