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“Enter.”

His study is exactly what I expected. Dark wood paneling, floor-to-ceiling books, a massive antique mahogany desk worth more than a car, a fire in the hearth. And his scent, concentrated, overwhelming, filling the room like smoke.

I feel a pulse between my legs.

I grip the folder tighter.

“I have a question about the trust documents.”

He is sitting behind his desk. He looks up. His eyes are amber. Controlled amber. The gold is being held back.

“Proceed.”

“The oldest trust in the east cabinet was established in 1847. And every financial ledger in that office, from 1890 to 1987, is written in the same handwriting.” I set the folder on the edge of his desk. “Your handwriting.”

He does not blink.

“Is there a question, Miss Lake?”

“How old are you?”

“That is not relevant to the estate’s financial management.”

“It’s relevant if I’m auditing records that span more than a century and the later ledgers were signed by the man sitting in front of me.”

He regards me like he’s deciding how much of himself to reveal.

“The trust predates me, Miss Lake. My parents established it in 1847. I was born in 1856. The handwriting in those later ledgers, however, is mine.”

I stare at him. A hundred and seventy years old. I do the arithmetic twice, even though the numbers agree the first time.

“Sit down, Miss Lake.”

“I’m fine standing.”

“You are standing very close to my desk.”

I am. I didn’t notice. I’ve been leaning forward, one hand flat on the mahogany, the folder open between us, and my face is closer to his than professional distance requires. Close enough that I can see the gold flecks in his amber eyes. Close enough that his scent is not background noise anymore. It is the only thing in the room.

Old leather. Aged whiskey. There’s a tug low in my belly that makes my breath catch.

His nostrils flare.

He knows. I can see it in the way his jaw tightens and his hands go flat on the desk. He can smell what just happened to me. He can smell the heat that just flooded through my body and settled between my thighs because I am standing too close to him and breathing him in and my omega has decided, with absolute certainty, that this man is the most important thing in this room, in this house, in this mountain, and possibly on this planet.

“Miss Lake.” His voice is very controlled. “I need you to step back from my desk.”

I should. I am a professional with a folder of trust documents and every reason to maintain appropriate boundaries with my employer.

“Why?”

His gaze drops to my waist, exactly where his hands caught me when I fell. His jaw tightens. “I nearly lost my composure when you fell off that ladder,” he says quietly. “I spent over an hour trying to recover it.”

His eyes flash gold. Full, liquid, molten gold, and they don’t retreat this time.

“If you do not step back, I am going to touch you. And if I touch you, I am not going to stop.”

He says it like he is stating a fact about property tax law. Except his hands are white-knuckled on the desk and his eyes are burning and his scent has changed, deepened, gone dark and thick and so overwhelmingly alpha that my knees actually soften.