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I 'm useless this morning. Despite two cups of strong coffee and the desperate urge to seem normal, my brain refuses to cooperate. Marina's walking me through the new scheduling software, but her words slide over me like water over glass. All I can think about is last night—Sterling's massive form bent over the mount, muscles shifting under sweat-slicked fur, the glimpse of his knot swelling thickly at the base of him, the rough, broken sounds tearing from his throat.

"Hank? Are you listening?"

Marina's voice cuts through the fantasy like a slap, and I jerk upright, blinking at her.

"Sorry," I mutter, dragging my attention back to the glowing computer screen. "Just tired."

She gives me a concerned look, head tilted. "You don't look so good. Coming down with something?"

Coming apart with something, I think bitterly, but I force a weak smile. "Just didn't sleep well."

It's the truth, technically. I spent half the night tossing and turning, replaying the scene from Room 8 on a relentless, fevered loop. In some versions, Sterling turned and caught me watching, his expression dangerous and dark. In others, he confronted me in the hallway, furious—or worse, not furious at all. In the worst versions—the ones that left me sweaty and hard beneath the sheets—he didn't mind. He wanted me watching.

"Well, try to focus," Marina says, tapping a pen against her clipboard. "Sterling wants you handling check-ins independently by next week."

At the sound of his name, a visceral heat licks up my spine, shame chasing it so quickly it leaves me dizzy. I shift uncomfortably in my chair, grateful for the desk hiding the reaction I can't control.

And then, as if summoned by the sheer force of my humiliation, Sterling appears.

He moves through the reception area with that devastating, effortless authority that's become a permanent fixture of my private fantasies. Charcoal suit, crisp shirt, tie snug against his thick neck—impeccable, as always, except now I know what he looks like underneath it all. The thought makes my mouth dry out completely.

"Ms. Michaels. Mr. Honeyworth." He nods to each of us, voice low and perfectly even.

"There's been a change to the afternoon schedule," Sterling continues, glancing briefly at Marina. "Dr. Kim will be arriving at two instead of four. Please adjust accordingly."

"Of course," Marina says, already tapping it into the system.

His gaze shifts to me next, and my stomach flips so hard I grip the desk under the guise of repositioning myself.

"Mr. Honeyworth," Sterling says, holding my eyes with his own steady, unreadable gaze. "You'll observe Dr. Kim's procedures today. Understanding the health aspects of our work is essential."

"Yes, sir," I croak out, my voice embarrassingly hoarse.

Sterling studies me a beat longer than necessary, enough that heat crawls up my neck, flooding my face. Does he know? Can he somehow see what I've been thinking all morning—the filthy, impossible fantasies I've built around his body, his sounds, his knot?

"You look flushed," Sterling says finally. "I hope you're not bringing illness into the facility."

"No, sir," I say quickly. "Just... didn't sleep well."

Something flickers in his eyes—a glint of suspicion, or maybe amusement—but it's gone so fast I can't catch it.

"See that you rest properly tonight," he says, voice clipped. "We maintain high standards here."

And just like that, he's gone, his footsteps retreating down the hall, leaving me clutching the desk like it's the only thing keeping me upright.

Marina snorts, giving me a side-eye glance. "Seriously, Hank. You look like you've seen a ghost."

More like I've seen my boss naked and can't stop picturing his cock knotting inside me, I think viciously.

"I'm fine," I say instead. "Let's just finish this training."

The rest of the morning drags painfully slow. Every time the front door chimes, I flinch, half-convinced it's Sterling coming to call me out. Every time the phone rings, I imagine it's his voice on the other end, low and furious, summoning me to his office. And the worst part—the truly, brutally humiliating part—is that a small, broken piece of me wants that summons. Wants him to call me in, shut the door, and strip away every ounce of plausible deniability we're both still pretending to cling to.

* * *

By lunchtime, I'm a wreck. A twitchy, useless wreck who can't even finish a sandwich.

I sit hunched in the staff room, picking at the bread with numb fingers, my stomach twisted into knots too tight to fix with food. Every creak of the building, every soft murmur from the hallway sets my nerves on edge, my body ready to bolt like a startled deer.

When the door swings open, I nearly leap out of my skin, heart slamming into my throat.

It's just Marcus.

"Whoa, easy there," he says with a laugh, his massive frame filling the doorway. "Didn't mean to spook you, kid."

"Sorry," I mutter, shoving my sandwich back into its bag like it personally offended me. "Just jumpy today."

Marcus grabs his usual protein shake from the fridge and leans back against the counter, studying me with those too-perceptive eyes that seem to see way more than I want them to.

"Woman trouble?" he asks casually, then pauses—long enough to make it deliberate. "Or... man trouble?"

I nearly choke on my water. I cough, sputter, wipe at my mouth with the back of my hand.

"What? No. Just—didn't sleep well," I lie, and it sounds weak even to me.

Marcus grins, flashing a hint of pointed teeth. He takes a swig from his shake, like he's savoring my discomfort.

"If you say so," he says, unconvinced. "But I recognize that look. You've got it bad for someone."

I force a laugh—too high, too sharp—hoping it covers the crack running straight down the middle of me. "You're imagining things."

"Am I?" Marcus tilts his head, amused. Then, softer, with an odd note of seriousness, he says, "Word of advice, kid. Be careful who you set your sights on around here. Some waters are too deep for swimming."

Before I can respond—or even think about what the hell that's supposed to mean—the door swings open again. And this time, it's Sterling. He steps inside, immaculate as ever, but there's a new weight behind his eyes, a focus that locks onto me like a heat-seeking missile.

"Mr. Honeyworth," he says. "A word. In my office."

My heart plummets straight into my shoes. This is it. He knows. He saw me. He's going to fire me. I scrape my chair back with a screech and follow him out, my legs barely remembering how to work. The hallway feels impossibly long, the walls closing in with every step.

Sterling opens the door to his office and gestures for me to sit. He stays standing, looming over me, his broad frame casting a shadow that feels suffocating.

"Dr. Kim mentioned something interesting during our call this morning," he says, his voice mild.

The panic inside me loosens slightly—until he continues.

"Our lubricant inventory shows we're fully stocked on warming formula. Despite Helena's insistence yesterday that we were running low." He fixes me with a stare so piercing it feels like a blade pressed against my skin. "The inventory you were so diligently counting after hours."

And just like that, the panic slams back into me, worse than before.

"I—" I start, scrambling for something, anything. "There must have been a miscommunication. Helena asked me to verify stock levels, and I?—"

"Mr. Honeyworth," Sterling interrupts, his voice cutting clean through my fumbling excuses. "I value honesty above all else in my employees. If you have a question about our operation, ask it directly. Don't fabricate reasons to investigate on your own."

My mouth goes dry. I swallow hard, forcing the words out.

"Yes, sir. I apologize."

He studies me for a long, agonizing moment. I can feel his gaze raking over me, heavy and knowing, and I fight the instinct to squirm under it.

"Your work has been exemplary so far," Sterling says at last, each word measured. "I would hate to see that record tarnished by inappropriate curiosity."

The way he says it—low, deliberate—makes my cheeks burn hot with shame. He knows. He knows exactly what I was doing. And worse, he knows exactly why.

"It won't happen again, sir," I manage.

Sterling watches me a second longer, then gives a single sharp nod. "See that it doesn't. That will be all."

I don't breathe again until I'm out of his office, the door clicking shut behind me. I duck into the nearest bathroom, gripping the edges of the sink, staring at my reflection like it might offer me answers. My face is pale, my eyes wide, my mouth pulled tight in a line of pure, helpless panic.

What the hell am I doing?

Risking my job, my reputation, my entire future—for what? A fantasy? A craving that can never be satisfied? I splash cold water on my face, but it does nothing to douse the images already burning into the backs of my eyelids.

Sterling's body, straining and sweating. The thick swell of his knot. The sounds he made—raw, primal, beautiful. The memory is a brand, seared deep into my bones. I can't scrub it away. I don't even want to. Even as I lean against the sink, breathing hard, trying to pull myself together, I know the truth.

If I see the opportunity again, If there's even a sliver of a chance— I won't stop myself. Because those stolen minutes watching Sterling Johnson, helpless and wild and beautiful, felt more real than anything else in my life. And no amount of guilt will ever be enough to erase that hunger now.

* * *

The afternoon passes in a blur of fluorescent lights and clinical terminology. Dr. Kim—a brisk, no-nonsense human woman in her forties—leads me through a crash course in minotaur reproductive health, her voice crisp and practiced as she explains the protocols for quality checks on recent collections.

I try—really try—to stay focused as she outlines the parameters they monitor: motility, volume, hormone levels. I nod in all the right places, scribble dutiful notes onto my clipboard, but my mind keeps betraying me. Keeps wandering back to Sterling. Keeps dragging me back to the raw, breathtaking images still burned behind my eyelids.

"The bulbus glandis—what we colloquially call 'the knot'—is unique to certain species, including minotaurs," Dr. Kim says, examining a slide under a microscope. Her voice is clinical, detached. Mine is anything but.

"During arousal, specialized tissue engorges with blood, creating a swelling at the base of the penis. In ancient times, this adaptation ensured successful mating by locking partners together."

I nod again, face blank, praying to whatever gods are listening that my body doesn't betray just how interested I actually am.

"For minotaurs seeking human partners, this anatomical feature presents... challenges," she continues. "Which is why facilities like Sterling's are so essential. They provide a safe outlet for natural biological needs."

I murmur something noncommittal, storing every word, every casual factoid, like smuggling stolen treasure straight into the fevered, shameless archive of my mind.

When Dr. Kim finishes her lecture, I thank her with what I hope passes for polite professional gratitude instead of the desperate, feverish gratitude clawing inside my chest.

By the time my shift ends, I'm physically and emotionally wrung dry. The constant, suffocating tension of being around Sterling, pretending to be unaffected when all I can think about is the memory of him losing control in Room 8—it's draining in a way nothing else has ever been.

I gather my things slowly, checking my watch more times than I can justify. Nearly 6 p.m. In fifteen minutes, Sterling will slip into Room 8 again for his daily release. The thought alone sends a jolt of raw heat flashing through me.

I stand there, lingering like an idiot, fighting the sick, twisted part of myself that wants to stay. Wants to see.

No. Not after this morning's warning. Not after the way he looked at me, voice low and sharp when he said "inappropriate curiosity."

I force myself to walk to my car. Force myself to start the engine. Force myself to drive away before temptation sinks its claws deeper than it already has.

At home, I try to distract myself—flip through mindless television, shuffle playlists I can't concentrate on—but nothing helps. The scene from Room 8 keeps replaying, sharper each time. In my mind, Sterling isn't bent over the mount anymore—he's bending me over it. His huge hands locking around my hips. The heavy weight of his cock nudging against me, thick and hot. The growing swell of his knot anchoring me to him, claiming me.

I hold out for as long as I can, pretending I have some shred of dignity left. But in the end, I give up. In the shower, under the pounding hot spray, I stroke myself to a quick, brutal climax, Sterling's name spilling from my lips before I can bite it back.

The physical release leaves me shaking, leaning against the tile wall with my head bowed. But emotionally? It doesn't touch the hunger gnawing at my insides. If anything, it makes it worse.

That night, my dreams offer no mercy. Sterling and I—twisted together on the mount, in my apartment, in impossible, filthy scenarios that leave me gasping, hard and aching with need.

I wake over and over again, tangled in sweat-soaked sheets, my cock stiff against the fabric of my boxers, my mind a whirl of shame and longing.

By morning, I feel like I haven't slept at all. Dark circles smudge under my eyes as I drag on my clothes with slow, clumsy hands. Every muscle aches. My brain hums with exhaustion and lust.

I consider calling in sick—faking a fever, blaming bad sushi—but the thought of not seeing Sterling, even from a distance, tightens something sharp and painful inside my chest. I'd rather suffer through the day, hollow and burning, than go one day without seeing him again.

* * *

The workday is a special kind of torture.

Sterling is everywhere—stopping by the front desk to check schedules, passing me in the hallways, appearing without warning in rooms I'm restocking. Each encounter leaves me flustered and breathless, struggling to pull myself back into the thin veneer of professionalism that feels like it's wearing thinner by the hour.

Marina notices, of course. She notices everything.

"Seriously, Hank," she says, glancing at me over her computer screen. "What's going on with you? You've been weird all week."

"Just... personal stuff," I mutter, avoiding her gaze.

She frowns. "Well, get it sorted. Sterling's starting to notice, and not in a good way."

The warning should send a jolt of fear down my spine. It does—sort of. But mixed with it is something worse—something hotter and sharper. The knowledge that Sterling is noticing me at all sends a thrill through my body that's nearly impossible to hide.

By Thursday afternoon, I'm in the storage room, inventorying accessories, when the door swings open without warning. I spin around, a specialized stimulator clutched in my hand—one look at the device, and my face flames hot with mortification.

Sterling stands in the doorway, his expression unreadable, one eyebrow raised in mild amusement. I hastily set the device back on the shelf like it burned me.

"Mr. Honeyworth," he says, stepping inside. His voice is even, but the room feels smaller instantly, more dangerous. "Helena mentioned you've been distracted during your shifts. Care to explain?"

My mind races for an excuse, anything plausible enough to cover the chaos boiling just beneath my skin. "I'm sorry, sir," I say. "I've been having trouble sleeping."

"So I've gathered." Sterling moves farther into the room, the door swinging shut behind him with a soft click.

The air feels heavy, claustrophobic. He's close enough now that I can smell him—musk and cedar, and something dark and uniquely him that cuts straight through every last shred of my defenses.

"Any particular reason for your... insomnia?" His voice drops slightly, rough around the edges.

Yes. You. The way your body looked bent over that mount. The sounds you made. The way your knot swelled thick and heavy, anchoring you in pleasure I had no right to witness.

"Just... stress, I suppose," I manage, hating how strained my voice sounds.

Sterling studies me for a long moment, amber eyes narrowed.

"Your performance has suffered," he says finally. "The quality of your work remains acceptable, but your attention to detail has declined."

"I apologize, sir," I say quickly. "I'll do better."

"See that you do."

He steps closer, and instinctively I back up until my spine hits the shelving behind me.

Sterling towers over me, a wall of heat and scent and restrained power. My heart kicks hard against my ribs, my palms going clammy at my sides.

"Whatever is distracting you," he says, voice low and deliberate, "deal with it. I don't tolerate personal issues affecting professional performance."

"Yes, sir," I whisper, my breath catching at his nearness.

He holds my gaze, tension vibrating between us so tightly it feels like the entire room could snap apart from it. Then—slowly, deliberately—he reaches past me, his massive arm brushing against mine. The contact is brief but searing, sending a jolt of electricity skimming over my skin.

He grabs a clipboard from the shelf just behind my head, the movement casual, calculated.

"The quarterly inventory reports," he says, his tone snapping back to brisk professionalism. "Helena needs them by tomorrow."

"Of course," I say, throat dry.

He steps back, giving me room to breathe, and for a second I sag against the shelving in pure, shaking relief.

"Good night, Mr. Honeyworth," Sterling says, heading for the door. "I trust you'll resolve whatever is keeping you awake."

When he leaves, I stay frozen, staring after him like a man watching a storm pass overhead, still too stunned to know whether he's survived it. The brush of his arm against mine feels branded into my skin. This is getting dangerous. I need to get a grip on these feelings before I do something truly, spectacularly stupid. And yet, when evening comes, when closing time creeps closer, I find myself manufacturing another reason to stay.

The quarterly reports Sterling mentioned do need cross-referencing with last quarter's data. It's a legitimate task. One that might even impress him if I do it thoroughly.

That's what I tell myself. That's the lie I cling to.

At 6:05, I'm still at my desk, pretending to be absorbed in paperwork while listening—straining—for the sound of his footsteps.

I hear his office door close. Hear the heavy tread of his boots moving down the hall toward the collection rooms. My pulse spikes, sharp and desperate. I rise quietly, clipboard clutched in my sweaty hand, and slip into the hallway.

Just one more look, I tell myself. Just to confirm what I saw. Then I'll stop.

Even as I think it, I know it's a lie. I creep toward Room 8, every step measured, silent. The door is ajar again—a sliver of invitation gleaming between frame and door.

My breath catches painfully.

I position myself carefully this time, heart thundering against my ribs, finding an angle that gives me a better view while minimizing my chance of being seen.

Through the gap, I see him.

Sterling, already undressing, his back to me. His shirt slips from his broad shoulders, revealing thick, powerful muscles, the dark fur along his spine tapering into a line I ache to trace with my fingers. He unbuckles his belt, and I hold my breath as he shoves his pants down over those massive thighs, the heavy curve of his ass stealing what little breath I have left.

Just as he starts moving toward the mount, a sudden noise shatters the charged stillness—the reception doors clanging open, the cleaning crew arriving early.

Panic seizes me.

I back away fast, heart hammering so violently I almost stumble. I round the corner just as the cleaning crew's chatter echoes down the hall, ducking out of sight. I rush back to my desk, grabbing my things with shaking hands. As I head for the exit, Miguel gives me a curious look but says nothing.

Outside, in my car, I sit gripping the steering wheel, my whole body trembling—equal parts adrenaline, terror, and bone-deep frustration. The glimpse I caught—the curve of Sterling's back, the muscles flexing beneath his fur—only feeds the fire roaring inside me.

It's not enough. Not even close.

I start the engine, already thinking ahead to tomorrow. Already searching for the next excuse, the next opportunity, the next stolen moment. This fixation is consuming me. Changing me.

And the worst part—the part that scares me more than anything else—is that I no longer care. I'll do anything, risk anything, just for the chance to see him again. And next time, I won't let anything interrupt.