Sera's heart slammed against her ribs as she clicked through her slides, the projector's hum the only sound breaking the tense quiet. "As you can see," she said, her voice steady despite the knot in her throat, "the data indicates a 35% spike in avoidance behaviors under sustained stress. For your security teams, this means incorporating adaptive training to—"
The door swung open with a sharp creak, cutting her off. All eyes turned, including hers, as a tall figure stepped in. He was dressed in a crisp black suit, but what stole her breath was the mask—sleek, black, covering everything but his eyes, dark and piercing like Pieces of black stone. Who the hell was that? Sera thought to herself. He wasn't just another late arrival; his presence took over the room, like smoke, thick and impossible to avoid.
The air shifted, carrying a faint scent of sandalwood and leather, making her mouth go dry. She'd heard of Damien Kincaid, the elusive funder whose name sent ripples through the lab, but no one mentioned a mask. Security reasons? Or something more sinister?
He didn't say a word of apology. He simply nodded to the group, then slid into the head seat, his gaze locking onto hers. His eyes never wavered, intense and steady, sending a shiver down her spine that settled deep in her stomach. Stop staring, Sera.Focus. She adjusted her glasses, suddenly aware of her outfit—the fitted top hugging her curves a bit too snugly after the rushed morning, high-waist wide-leg jeans swaying as she shifted in her black heels. Clumsy choice for a presentation; one wrong step and she'd trip again.
"Continue," he said, his voice low and commanding, laced with a gravelly edge that made her pulse stutter. It wasn't a request.
She swallowed hard, nodding. "Right. Um, to mitigate that, we recommend exposure simulations tailored to individual thresholds." Her words came quicker now, her knowledge cutting through the nerves—she knew this research like the back of her hand, her mind mapping out human fears as if they were streets. But his gaze... it felt like he was peeling her open, seeing all the things she kept buried: the childhood scars that made touch feel like a threat, the hidden desires that whispered when no one was around.
One of the attendees, a stern woman in a blazer, leaned forward. "Interesting. But how does this apply to real-time ops? Give us an example."
Sera seized the question, grateful for the distraction. "Take a high-stakes extraction—operators might default to avoidance if fear overrides training. Our protocols build resilience through gradual—"
"Gradual?" The masked man—Damien, it had to be—interrupted, his tone sharp as a blade. "In my world, gradual gets people killed. Fix it faster, or it's worthless."
The room stiffened, whispers spreading through the air. Sera's cheeks burned, but she met those eyes—barely visible slits of intensity. "With respect, Mr. Kincaid—" she guessed, and his slight head tilt confirmed it—"rushing psychological fixes breaks people. It's about control, not force."
A low chuckle escaped him, muffled by the mask. "Control is force, Miss Lancaster. You'd do well to learn that."
Sera's breath hitched, a spark of defiance flaring through the nervous fog in her chest. Damien's words—Control is force, Miss Lancaster. You'd do well to learn that—hung in the air, sharp and mocking, his masked eyes glinting like they could see her racing pulse. Her shyness usually kept her quiet, swallowing her thoughts whole, but this was her work—her research, her hours spent dissecting the human mind. She wasn't some pushover, not here. Her fingers tightened around the pointer, the cool plastic grounding her as she straightened, her fitted top pulling tight across her chest, high-waist jeans shifting as she planted her heels.
"Mr. Kincaid," she said, her voice steadier now, though it trembled at the edges, "with all due respect, you're wrong." The room froze, the remaining attendees glancing between them like spectators at a duel. "Control isn't just force—it's precision. Forcing someone past their breaking point doesn't fix them; it shatters them. My data proves that." She clicked to a slide showing a graph of stress thresholds, her mind racing as fast as her heart. Don't back down, Sera. He's just a man, mask or not.
His head tilted, those dark eyes narrowing through the mask's slits, and she swore she felt their weight, like fingers pressing into her skin without touching.
"Bold words for someone who can't even walk in on time," he said, his voice low, cutting, a hint of amusement curling the edges. "Your data's cute, Miss Lancaster, but in my world, hesitation is death. You think your little charts can save my men when bullets fly?"
Her cheeks burned, but she stepped closer to the projector, pointing at the screen. "My 'little charts' show a 40% reduction in panic responses with proper training. You want your men sharp? You don't break them—you build them. That's what I do." Her glasses slipped slightly, and she pushed them up with a quick, clumsy jab, cursing inwardly as a strand of dark hair fell loose. Why did she always feel like a mess under pressure?
A woman in the group coughed, breaking the tension. "She's got a point, Damien. We've seen results from similar studies."
Ignoring the interruption, Damien's gaze bore into Sera, the slits of his mask sharpening those dark eyes into weapons. "Building takes time we don't have. You're naive if you think otherwise." He leaned forward, elbows on the table, his sandalwood cologne hitting her like a slap, sharp and intoxicating, making her head spin. "But I like your fire. Misguided, but… intriguing."
Sera's stomach twisted, fury igniting over the panic that usually choked her. Intriguing? Like she was some experiment for him to poke at?
Her shyness usually kept her quiet, but this was her creation—her passion, made from sleepless nights and a mind sharp enough to understand people like cutting through soft flesh. She wasn't his toy. Her hands clenched into fists, her nails digging into her palms as she stood up straighter, her tight top hugging her body, and her high-waist jeans wrinkling as she moved in her heels.
"Naive?" she shot back, voice sharp despite the fear. "You think I don't know pressure, Mr. Kincaid? My protocols cut panic responses by 40%. Your men need that, or they're the ones who'll break." The room went quiet, everyone's pens stopped, and eyes were wide. Her heart raced, a mix of anger and fear—those old childhood fears telling her to run and hide—but she kept looking at him, her breath quick. He doesn't get to ignore my theories.
"Impressive," Damien said, his voice a low rumble, the word sharp enough to cut through the silence that followed Sera's outburst. His masked eyes glinted, unreadable, but the weight of them made her skin prickle, like a cold breeze brushing her neck. The room held its breath, pens frozen, attendees glancing between them. She stood at the podium, heart slamming against her ribs, did I just snap at him? Her mind spun.
"Continue, Miss Lancaster," he added, leaning back in his chair, his tone calm but laced with something darker, like a challenge. His sandalwood cologne lingered, sharp and heavy, twisting her stomach into knots. He's testing me. Why? She adjusted her glasses, fingers trembling, and clicked to the next slide, her voice finding its rhythm. "Right. Our protocols use phased exposure to build resilience, reducing panic in high-stakes scenarios by reinforcing neural pathways…" Her mind kicked in, and the words came easily as she shared her research, explaining stress limits and decision-making. She was sharp—really sharp—her brain cutting through human behavior like a knife, even if her awkward hands gave her away, dropping the pointer with a loud noise. Breathe, Sera, breathe, she murmured to herself.
The others nodded, some writing notes, one woman quietly showing approval. But Damien's eyes never left her, watching her closely, like she was a butterfly stuck to a board. Every word felt like a show just for him, her heart racing, her mouth dry from nerves. What does he want? She finished, keeping her voice calm even as heat rushed to her neck, and turned off the projector. "Any questions?" she asked, ready for more from him.
The room stirred, a few hands raised with technical queries she answered with ease, her confidence growing. Then Damien spoke, voice slicing through. "Meet me in cabin three after this. We need to discuss your… oversights." He stood, towering, and left without another word, the door clicking shut behind him.
Oversights? Her stomach dropped, anger sparking over the fear. He thinks I messed up? The others filed out, offering polite nods, leaving her alone with her racing thoughts.
She packed her laptop, her hands trembling, papers slipping from her grip. Clumsy fool. She knew cabin three—one of the private meeting rooms at the retreat, hidden deeper in the pines. Why there? Her mind flashed to his mask, those eyes, the way his voice had been a command she couldn't ignore. He's just a funder. Get a grip. But her body betrayed her, a flush of heat low in her belly, embarrassing and unexpected. She hated it—hated how he awakened something she'd buried, something that whispered surrender even though she feared being touched.
She stepped outside, the cool, rain-drenched air brushing against her burning cheeks, and walked toward cabin three, her heels sinking into the muddy path. What mistake? She'd double-checked every data point. He's wrong. But as she neared the cabin, her heart pounded faster, fear and defiance tangled up like wires.