"You don't understand," she says finally, her voice quieter, more raw. "If this retreat fails, if the feedback is bad, if your executives complain to your HR department, my boss will use it as an excuse to fire me. He's been looking for a reason for months. Every event has to be flawless. Every client has to be satisfied. Every detail has to be perfect or I'm out, and I can't—I can't afford to be out. I have student loans. I have rent. I have an entire career I've built that she can destroy with one bad reference."
The words come out in a rush, tumbling over each other, and this is the first time she's actually told me the truth about what's driving her, about why she shows up with an airhorn and taped-together itineraries and refuses to back down even when she's clearly outmatched.
"Your boss is incompetent," I say bluntly, because it's true and because Romee needs to hear it from someone who has no incentive to lie to her. "I pulled your file. I've seen the events you've planned. The corporate merger celebration that came in fifteen percent under budget. The product launch that generated more social media engagement than the actual product. The investor gala that had a waiting list. Those were your concepts. Your execution. And she took credit for all of them."
Romee goes very still, her eyes widening in a way that tells me she didn't realize I'd dug that deep, didn't know I'd bothered to verify the background details of the woman currently standing in my cabin dripping on my floor.
"Why do you know that?" Her voice is careful now, controlled, but I can hear the thread of something underneath it that might be hope or might be fear or might be both.
"Because I don't hire people to plan my corporate retreats without understanding who they are and what they're capable of," I tell her, stepping closer, at the exact moment her breath catches, the way her pupils dilate slightly even as her spine straightens in automatic defensive posture. "And because watching you operate for three days made it obvious that you're operating at about thirty percent capacity while managing someone else's incompetence and your own fear of failure simultaneously."
"I'm not afraid of failure," she shoots back immediately, that corporate mask slamming back into place, that sharp professional edge returning to her voice.
"You're terrified of it," I counter, taking another step forward, watching her back up instinctively until she hits the door behind her with a soft thump. "You're so scared of failing that you won't eat, won't sleep, won't ask for help, won't admit when something is genuinely beyond your control. You'll stand in a freezing rainstorm and let yourself go into hypothermiabefore you'll walk away from a bonfire that's already destroyed. That's not competence, Romee. That's fear."
Her chin lifts, that stubborn tilt I'm starting to recognize as her default response to any challenge, but I can see the cracks forming in her armor, the way her hands are shaking slightly where she's pressed them against the door behind her.
"You don't know anything about me," she says, but her voice wavers on the last word, betraying her.
"I know you demand trust from my executives all day. I know you stand in front of Orcs twice your size with an airhorn and expect them to fall in line. I know you tied yourself to my leg even though you were shaking. I know you keep showing up even when everything is falling apart."
My chest brushes against hers with each breath, as the heat radiating off her skin despite the chill from the rain, and the corporate masks we've both been wearing for three days are utterly useless.
"Do you trust me?" I ask, the question coming out rougher than I intended, more demand than inquiry.
She stares up at me, her eyes wide and dark and complicated, her breath coming faster now in a way that has nothing to do with the cold and everything to do with proximity and tension and the charged air crackling between us.
"I don't know," she whispers finally, and the honesty of it hits me harder than any deflection or professional courtesy would have.
CHAPTER 7
ROMEE
Istare up at Thrall, my back pressed against the solid mahogany door, his massive frame blocking out everything else in the room, in the world, in my entire carefully organized existence. His molten eyes are predatory, waiting for an answer I'm not sure I should give but can't seem to hold back.
"Yes," I whisper, and the word comes out raw and honest and terrifying.
His pupils dilate immediately, swallowing the amber until his eyes are nearly black, and something fundamental shifts in the air between us. The careful, sardonic tech CEO who's been needling me for three days vanishes entirely, replaced by something primal and utterly overwhelming.
"Say it again," he demands.
"I trust you," I manage, my voice barely steady, as something fierce and possessive flash across his face.
"Good," he rumbles, and then his mouth crashes down on mine with absolutely no warning, no gradual build, no tentative exploration. He kisses like he does everything else, with total overwhelming force and zero apology for taking up space.
I gasp against his mouth, my hands flying up instinctively to his chest, and the sheer heat and solid muscle under my palmsscrambles every organized thought in my brain. He's so hot it's almost shocking, his body temperature running significantly higher than human normal, and the contrast between the lingering chill from the rain still clinging to my skin and the furnace-like heat radiating off him makes me dizzy.
His massive hand comes up to cup the back of my head, completely engulfing my skull, his fingers threading through my soaked hair and destroying what's left of my professional chignon. I should care about that. I've spent three years perfecting the image of unshakeable competence, and he's dismantling it with his bare hands.
I can't bring myself to give a single damn.
His tusks graze my jaw as he angles his head, careful despite the intensity, and the sensation sends a shockwave of heat straight down my spine. I've never kissed an Orc before, never been this close to one, and the logistics are different, unfamiliar, but somehow Thrall makes it work, makes it feel inevitable, like my body was designed specifically to fit against his despite the ridiculous size difference.
He pulls back just enough to look down at me, his breathing rougher now, his eyes scanning my face and makes me feel completely exposed.
"You've been driving me insane for three days," he growls, his thumb tracing along my jawline with startling gentleness given the barely leashed violence I can feel thrumming through his frame. "Walking around with your clipboard and your color-coded schedules, bossing my executives around like you're not five feet something and surrounded by Orcs who could snap you in half."
"Five-five," I correct automatically, breathlessly, and his mouth curves into something dark and amused.
