I am not a brave person. I am the kind of person who double-checks the lock on the door three times before going to sleep. I am the kind of person who apologizes when someone else bumps into me. I am, quite frankly, the last person on earth who should be standing in the penthouse office of Damien Thorne.
The air up here smelled different—expensive. It was a blend of polished mahogany, expensive leather, and something sharper, like ozone before a storm. My heart was hammering a frantic rhythm against my ribs, a traitorous drumbeat that I was sure he could hear all the way across the room.
My best friend, Kate, was supposed to be here. She was the journalist. She was the one with the spine of steel and the vocabulary to match. But she had the flu, a violent, bed-ridden flu, and she had begged me to conduct this interview for the student paper.
"You owe me," she had rasped. "Big time."
And so, here I was, clutching my bag to my chest like a shield, waiting for the devil to acknowledge my existence.
Damien Thorne sat behind a glass desk that looked more like a sheet of frozen ice than furniture. He wasn't looking at me. He was reading something on a tablet, his long, elegant fingers swiping across the screen. He was dressed in a bespoke charcoal suit, the tie perfectly knotted, the white shirt crisp and stark against his olive skin. He was, objectively, breathtaking. But it was a terrifying kind of beauty—severe, untouchable, and cold.
He didn't look up. I shifted my weight from one foot to the other, the squeak of my Converse sneakers loud in the cavernous silence.
"Miss Vance," he said suddenly. His voice was a baritone, low and smooth, like velvet dragged over gravel. It sent a shiver racing down my spine that I couldn't suppress.
"Mr. Thorne," I managed to squeak. I cleared my throat. "I'm sorry, I know I'm early. Kate—Katherine Kavanagh—she couldn't make it. I'm Elara. Elara Vance."
Finally, he looked up.
His eyes were the color of a stormy sea, gray and turbulent. They pinned me to the spot. He didn't just look at me; he assessed me. It was as if he were stripping away my layers, my cheap clothes, my nervousness, peeling me back to the bone. I felt exposed, naked under that gaze.
He stood up and walked around the desk. He moved with a predatory grace, fluid and silent. He stopped mere inches from me. He was tall, looming over my small frame.
"Elara," he murmured, tasting the name. "Sit."
It wasn't a request. It was a command.
I scrambled into the leather chair opposite his desk, nearly missing the seat. He leaned back against the glass, crossing his arms. The fabric of his suit jacket strained slightly over his biceps. He was powerfully built, not the body of a man who sat behind a desk all day.
"You are not a journalist," he stated. It wasn't a question.
"No. I... I study English Literature."
"Why are you here, Elara Vance?"
"To interview you," I said, my voice trembling. "For the graduation edition."
His lips quirked into a half-smile that held no humor. "Ask your questions then."
I fumbled with the crumpled questionnaire in my pocket. My hands were shaking. I unfolded the paper, smoothed it out on my thigh, and began to read. The questions were banal. *What drives you? Who is your inspiration?* They felt ridiculous in this room, in front of this man who looked like he ate people like me for breakfast.
I stumbled through them. He answered with monosyllables or short, clipped sentences, his gaze never leaving my face. It was unnerving. I felt heat rising in my cheeks, a flush that had nothing to do with embarrassment and everything to do with the intensity of his attention.
Finally, I got to the last question. I looked up, meeting his eyes. "Are you happy, Mr. Thorne?"
He paused. He tilted his head to the side, studying me as if I were a curiosity. "I don't do happy, Miss Vance. I do control. I do satisfaction. Happy is a fantasy for children."
The air in the room seemed to thicken. I swallowed, my throat suddenly dry.
"You bite your lip," he observed, his voice dropping an octave.
I froze. I hadn't realized I was doing it. I immediately released the tender flesh from my teeth.
"Don't," he said. He reached out, his thumb brushing my lower lip. The contact was electric, searingly hot. I gasped, my eyes widening. "It's distracting."
"I... I'm sorry."
"Stop apologizing." He pulled his hand away, but the phantom of his touch lingered. "You're nervous."
"Yes."
"Good." He pushed off the desk and walked back to his chair. "You should be. Now, get out."
I blinked, stunned. "Excuse me?"
"You heard me. You're trespassing on my time. Leave."
I stood up, flustered, grabbing my bag. I felt a strange mix of relief and crushing disappointment. I had been dismissed. I was nothing to him. I turned to go.
"Oh, and Miss Vance?"
I turned at the door.
He was leaning back in his chair, watching me with those piercing gray eyes. "If you ever want to explore why you're so terrified right now... and why you liked it... look me up."
He held up a business card. I hadn't even seen him take it out.
I walked back, my legs feeling like jelly, and took the card. Our fingers brushed. A jolt of electricity snapped between us. I snatched the card away and fled the room, my heart pounding in my ears.
***