His expression reveals absolutely nothing, no surprise, no disapproval, no judgment. Just the blank, professional mask of someone collecting data points, filing information away for future leverage. That emptiness is somehow worse than outright anger would be. Anger I could quantify, calculate, prepare for. This careful neutrality is a loaded gun with the safety off, and I have no idea when he plans to pull the trigger.
Monday morning arrives with the inevitability of taxes and terrible news.
My alarm screams at six. I silence it, shower, dress in my sharpest suit, armor made of wool blend and spite.
The hickey on my neck, vivid purple-red, unmistakably Thraka-shaped, requires three painstaking layers of concealer, blended with a master forger doctoring incriminating evidence. I layer on the foundation like I'm building a defensive fortification, each application smoothed and set with powder until the mark disappears beneath professionally neutral beige.
My reflection in the bathroom mirror looks composed, controlled, completely professional. Perfect winged eyeliner. Hair styled into submission. Expression carefully neutral, the mask I've perfected over years of performance reviews and hostile takeovers.
My reflection is an absolute, shameless liar.
Coffee tastes like ashes and regret. My espresso machine, normally my most reliable relationship, more consistent than any boyfriend, more dependable than quarterly earnings, produces something bitter and wrong this morning. The crema looks off, the temperature feels incorrect, and the first sip hits my tongue with all the appeal of battery acid mixed with disappointment.
I dump it down the sink and try again. Same result.
Even my technology has turned against me. The universe itself is signaling its disapproval, one failed extraction at a time.
The office building looms, glass and steel and corporate neutrality. I badge in at seven forty-five, exactly on schedule, routine providing structure when everything else feels chaotic.
Thraka waits by my desk.
He wears a suit, the fabric straining across his shoulders, the sleeves too short, but he's attempted a tie. It sits crooked, the knot lumpy, like he wrestled it into submission and lost.
"Good morning, Little Manager."
My stomach flips. Stupid stomach. Stupid body, responding to his voice like Pavlov's dog to a bell.
"Good morning." I set down my bag, boot my computer, go through the motions. "You're in early."
"Could not sleep. Missed your warmth."
"Thraka." I glance around. Empty cubicles, but walls have ears in corporate environments. "We're at work."
"I am aware. Your scent is different here. More stressed. Less satisfied." He says this at normal volume, as though commenting on the weather or the quality of the break room coffee.
Heat floods my face, creeping up from my collar, burning across my cheeks. I can feel the precise temperature differential between my normal skin tone and this mortifying blush. "Please stop talking about my scent in the office."
"Why? It has a good scent. Even if I'm stressed, still good." He sounds genuinely confused by my objection, head tilted like a large, predatory golden retriever trying to understand why the ball shouldn't be thrown inside. "You smell of coffee and anger and that soap you use. And me, a little bit. From last night."
"Thraka." My voice comes out strangled.
"What? Is true."
My computer loads with agonizing slowness, the progress bar creeping across the screen like it's deliberately torturing me. Each second stretches. Password. Email. Calendar. The applications open one after another, each revealing layers of corporate communication and scheduled obligations.
There it is, glowing with the ominous red of a mandatory meeting, the color choice itself a warning: 9:00 AM - CEO Office - O. Peace, Thraka - RE: Incident Report.
My heart drops somewhere into my stomach, possibly lower, possibly into my sensible low-heeled pumps.
The world narrows to that single calendar entry. Incident Report. Two words that could mean anything, but in context mean exactly one thing.
"We have a meeting with the CEO." The words come out flat, professional, completely at odds with the panic building behind my sternum.
Thraka leans over to read the screen, his chest pressing against my shoulder, solid and warm and completely inappropriate for the workplace. "Good. I will explain to the Chieftain that you are mine now. The claiming is complete. He must respect this."
"That's not remotely how corporate hierarchies or professional relationships function in this environment."
"Then explain to me how they function."
