He turns his head the moment I approach, amber eyes locking onto me with immediate, focused attention.
"Four minutes, thirty seconds," he rumbles, glancing at his watch. "You're late."
"I'm efficient." I stop in front of him, tilting my head back to meet his gaze. Even in heels, I barely reach his chest, and the sheer size difference still does something to my pulse that I refuse to examine too closely in a professional setting. "Your mic pack is ready, the teleprompter is synced, and your intro video is cued. You're going to be brilliant."
"I'm going to be adequate." He reaches out, catching my wrist gently and tugging me closer, into the shadowed alcove beside the stage entrance where we're mostly hidden from the crew."You're the one who's brilliant. Do you have any idea what you look like right now?"
"Professionally dressed and appropriately organized?"
"Terrifying. Every single one of my executives is out there right now, following your instructions without question, because you walked into this ballroom and made it yours. You built this, Romee. Your company, your vision, your standards."
I swallow hard. "You gave me the contract that made it possible."
"I gave you capital. You did everything else." His thumb traces the inside of my wrist, a gentle, possessive gesture that contradicts his matter-of-fact tone. "And watching you command a room full of Orcs who could physically snap you in half but wouldn't dare disobey you is the most attractive thing I've ever witnessed."
"Thrall." I glance around quickly, checking for eavesdroppers. "You have a keynote in twelve minutes. This is not the time for?—"
"For telling you I'm proud of you?" He leans down, his forehead nearly touching mine, crowding me back against the wall in a way that should feel aggressive but instead feels grounding. Safe. "For reminding you that you're the most competent, brilliant, infuriating person I've ever met?"
"You can tell me that later. After your speech. After the investor presentations. After?—"
"After I've spent three hours on stage talking about quarterly projections and market expansion?" His hand slides to my waist, anchoring me against him. "I'd rather tell you now."
"You're impossible."
"You love me."
"I really do," I admit, reaching up to straighten his tie even though it's already perfect. "Which is why I need you to geton that stage and absolutely destroy this keynote so that every investor in that ballroom throws money at you."
"Our contracts are already locked in."
"I know. But I like watching you work." I smooth down his lapel, letting my hand rest briefly against his chest. "You're very attractive when you're being a ruthless CEO."
His eyes darken, his grip on my waist tightening fractionally. "Romee."
"Thrall." I pat his chest firmly and step back, reclaiming my professional distance. "Stage. Now. I'll be in the wings watching, and if you go over your allotted time, I'm cutting your mic."
"You wouldn't."
"Try me."
He grins, that rare, devastating expression that he reserves exclusively for moments when I'm bossing him around, and reaches out to tuck a stray piece of hair behind my ear with surprising gentleness.
"I'll see you after," he promises, his voice rough with something I can't quite name.
Then he straightens, rolling his shoulders back, and transforms instantly into the commanding, intimidating CEO who built a tech empire from the ground up. He strides toward the stage entrance, as him go, my heart doing something complicated and warm.
Kiera appears beside me, tablet in hand. "He's on in three minutes. Do you want to watch from the wings or the control booth?"
"Wings," I say immediately, because there's no way I'm missing this.
The lights dim in the ballroom, and the intro video begins playing on the massive screens flanking the stage. I've seen it a dozen times during rehearsals, but it still gives me chills—the sleek montage of Horde Tech's rise, the cutting-edge technology,the global expansion, all set to a driving, dramatic score that builds anticipation perfectly.
Thrall appears beside me in the wings, his presence a solid, grounding weight in the darkness. He doesn't look nervous. He never does. But I can see the slight tension in his shoulders, the way his jaw tightens fractionally as he watches the video play.
I reach out without thinking, my fingers finding the corded muscle of his wrist in a quick, reassuring squeeze. The contact is electric, warm skin, barely contained power, steady beneath my palm. It's the kind of touch I wouldn't normally allow myself with a client, but nothing about this situation is normal anymore, and I've long since stopped pretending it is.
He glances down at me, his striking amber eyes catching the dim stage lights filtering through the wings, as some of the carefully controlled tension bleeding out of his massive shoulders. The tightness around his jaw eases fractionally, and there's something almost vulnerable in the way he holds my gaze for a beat longer than necessary.
