Page 5

5

S aturday arrives on the back of a thunderstorm that feels like the physical manifestation of my mind—dark, turbulent, and crackling with a dangerous, electric tension. I barely sleep. Again. My dreams are full of Sterling in various states of undress—his massive hands on my body, his cock nudging against me, the thick swell of his knot locking me in place while he moves inside me, slow and inevitable.

By Monday morning, I'm running on fumes. I arrive at Sterling's Pride twenty minutes early, hoping the drive through the storm from my apartment would clear my head. Instead, it leaves me soaked despite my umbrella, my shirt clinging uncomfortably to my skin. When Marina catches sight of me, she grimaces.

"You look like hell warmed over, Hank."

"Thanks," I mutter, running a hand through my damp hair like that'll fix anything. "The storm caught me in the parking lot."

"Not just the storm," she says, lowering her voice. "Sterling's been asking questions about you."

My heart skips hard, missing a beat. "What kind of questions?"

"How long you've been distracted. Whether you've mentioned any personal problems." She gives me a look that's somewhere between concerned and warning. "Whatever's going on, get it under control. Sterling doesn't tolerate employees who can't maintain professionalism."

The warning should make me sick with fear.

Instead, it sends a shiver of something hotter down my spine. The idea that Sterling is thinking about me—asking about me, even if it's for all the wrong reasons—makes my skin feel too tight.

"I'll handle it," I say, lying so smoothly I almost believe it myself.

The morning passes in a haze of check-ins and paperwork. The storm outside intensifies, rain battering the windows, thunder rumbling through the building like distant cannon fire. Around eleven, the lights flicker.

"Happens every time," Marina sighs, already reaching for the emergency procedures manual. "The backup generator should kick in."

And like clockwork, the facility plunges into darkness.

For one suspended heartbeat, there's absolute silence. Then the soft hum of the emergency generator kicks in, casting the building in a dim, eerie blue glow.

"Perfect," Marina mutters, grabbing the phone. "I'll call the power company."

A few minutes later, Sterling emerges from his office, flashlight in hand, the beam cutting cleanly through the half-light. The sight of him—solid, calm, in control—tightens something low in my gut.

"Status report?"

"Power outage. Backup's running emergency systems. I'm canceling appointments until further notice," Marina says.

Sterling nods, eyes already scanning the building like he's taking stock of every possible failure point. "Mr. Honeyworth, with me," he says. "We need to check the generator room and the refrigeration units. Ms. Michaels, update the clients."

I follow him down a corridor I've never been down before, deeper into the bowels of the facility. His massive frame moves easily through the narrow space, even as his shoulders brush close to both walls.

"The generator room is below ground," he explains, voice rumbling low. "Our primary concern is the refrigeration units. The stored samples represent significant investment."

We reach a heavy metal door. Sterling unlocks it, revealing a narrow stairwell disappearing into darkness.

The air grows heavier the farther we descend, the dim emergency lighting barely enough to chase away the shadows pooling at the bottom. Everything about this feels intimate in a way it shouldn't—the way his broad shoulders fill the space, the heat radiating off him in the close quarters.

At the bottom, Sterling pushes open another door into a humming room packed with machinery. The generator rumbles steadily along one wall, vibrating the floor under our feet.

"Check the temperature on the refrigeration panel," Sterling orders, jerking his chin toward a control board.

I move toward it, squinting. "Thirty-eight degrees. Holding steady."

"Good." He moves off to check another panel, leaving me standing awkwardly in the center of the room, hyper-aware of every breath he takes, every shift of his weight.

The heavy scent of him—musk, cedar, something wild—seems thicker down here. Or maybe it's just me, losing the ability to think straight.

"Everything looks stable," Sterling says after a while. "We'll check the maintenance closet for?—"

A deafening crack of thunder drowns him out, rattling the walls.

The emergency lights flicker once—twice—then blink out completely.

"Don't move," Sterling commands, his voice startlingly close. A second later, the sharp click of his flashlight cuts through the darkness, casting a narrow circle of light across the floor.

"The backup lighting system should reset," he says, scanning the room. "If not?—"

He doesn't finish. Because a red light flashes, and the sound of a bolt slipping into place is like a nail in the coffin.

Sterling drags his hand through his hair, cursing under his breath. "The power must have surged and tripped the emergency protocol. All the doors will stay locked for thirty minutes to allow time for the police to show up. Or until Marina realizes and puts in the code."

The words thirty minutes curls through the air, thick and undeniable.

My pulse thunders in my ears. I'm trapped in a small, dark room with Sterling Johnson. The man who stars in every filthy dream I've had for weeks. The man whose body I can still see when I close my eyes.

"This could take a while," Sterling says, nodding toward a battered bench against the far wall. "Might as well make ourselves comfortable."

He sits, the bench groaning under his weight, and gestures for me to join him.

I hesitate, because every instinct in me is screaming danger. But I go anyway, settling as far from him as possible—which isn't far at all. Our shoulders are almost touching. Every breath he takes seems to vibrate against my skin.

"This is... unfortunate timing," Sterling says after a long moment.

I cling desperately to professionalism. "At least the refrigeration units are still running."

He makes a noncommittal sound, the flashlight casting strange shadows over the hard lines of his face.

Silence stretches between us, heavy and brittle. The dim hum of machinery, the faint beat of rain against concrete, the low, steady sound of his breathing, so close I can feel it.

I sit stiffly, every nerve ending on high alert, trapped in a room full of dangerous possibilities. Because no matter how hard I try to convince myself otherwise, the truth presses against my skin, hot and insistent.

If Sterling reaches for me now— If he even looks at me the wrong way— I'm going to break.

And I don't know if I'll ever be able to put myself back together again.

* * *

Minutes pass like hours.

I sit rigid beside Sterling, acutely aware of every breath he takes, the steady rise and fall of his massive chest just inches from my shoulder. His warmth radiates across the narrow space between us, his scent—musk and cedar and something darker, wilder—filling my lungs with every shaky inhale. The situation is both torturous and thrilling, every second stretching out until the silence feels ready to split open between us.

"You've been distracted lately, Mr. Honeyworth," Sterling says suddenly, his deep voice cutting through the quiet like a blade.

I jolt, scrambling for composure. "I apologize, sir. I've been... dealing with some personal matters."

Sterling makes a low, noncommittal sound, the kind that gives away nothing. "Hmm. Your work has generally been excellent. Which is why the recent decline in focus is concerning."

"I'm working on it," I promise quickly, even as part of me knows it's a lie. How could I possibly focus when he's right here, when I'm drowning in the memory of the way he looked bent over that mount?

Sterling shifts slightly on the bench, and his arm brushes mine—barely a touch, just fabric against fabric—but it's enough to send a white-hot jolt through my body, enough to make me dizzy.

"Maintaining appropriate professional boundaries is essential in our line of work," Sterling continues, his tone still perfectly neutral. "The nature of what we do requires absolute discretion. Absolute respect for privacy."

My heart hammers hard against my ribs, beating so loudly I'm surprised he can't hear it.

"I understand, sir," I manage, voice strained.

"Do you?" Sterling turns slightly toward me, the dim glow of the flashlight catching in his amber eyes. The look he gives me—steady, unblinking—feels like being pinned in place, stripped bare without a single touch. "Because sometimes," he says, voice low, deliberate, "I wonder, Mr. Honeyworth."

The air between us feels electrified, buzzing with everything unsaid. I force myself to hold his gaze, to not flinch or look away, even as every nerve screams to bolt from the room.

"I value my privacy highly," Sterling says. "As do our clients. It's the foundation of our entire operation."

"Yes, sir."

"Which is why," he continues, voice tightening almost imperceptibly, "any breach of that privacy would be taken extremely seriously."

The word breach lands between us like a spark tossed onto dry kindling. My mouth is dry. My palms sweat against the worn fabric of my pants. He knows. He's known all along.

And still, he doesn't accuse me outright. Instead, he turns his gaze back toward the far wall, toward the lazy beam of the flashlight, as if he hadn't just gutted me with a handful of quiet, pointed words.

"Just something to consider," Sterling says mildly, "as you continue your internship with us."

The tension doesn't break. If anything, it thickens, tightening the already suffocating space between us until every breath feels like it scrapes against something raw.

We lapse into silence again, but now it's different—charged, coiled. I can feel him—his body heat, the subtle shifts of muscle under fur and clothing, the deliberate control in every breath he takes. And somehow, impossibly, I know he's just as aware of me. His presence presses against my senses, so overwhelming it leaves me trembling under my skin.

Minutes drag by. I lose track of time, of anything except the steady hum of the generator and the steady thud of my pulse in my ears.

Then, finally, Sterling speaks again, voice low and deceptively casual.

"Tell me, Mr. Honeyworth. What really drew you to Sterling's Pride?"

I blink, caught off guard by the question. "I... wanted something different," I say, stumbling over the words. "My family's been traditional farmers for generations. I needed to... break away from that."

Sterling nods, watching me with the same relentless attention he gives to inspection reports and client contracts. Waiting for more.

"And... I was curious," I add, the darkness making honesty easier. "About minotaurs. About your culture. Humans don't know very much. Not really."

"Curiosity," Sterling repeats, the word tasting different in his mouth, heavier somehow.

"Yes."

"But curiosity," he says, voice dipping lower, "should be satisfied through appropriate channels. Questions asked directly, rather than... observations made covertly."

My breath stutters in my chest. There's no mistaking his meaning now. No pretending.

Before I can even think of a response, a noise echoes from above—voices, faint at first but growing clearer.

"Mr. Johnson? Hank? Are you down there?"

Sterling rises smoothly to his feet, moving to the stairwell door. "We're here," he calls up. "We're locked in."

Marina's voice, relieved and sharp, answers. "Electric is still down, so the alarm panel isn't working. Maintenance is on the way! About twenty minutes!"

"Understood."

Sterling returns to the bench, sitting down again—closer this time. Deliberate. The few inches of space between us disappear, swallowed by the heavy, humming tension.

"It appears," Sterling says, voice pitched low enough that the crew above couldn't possibly hear, "our conversation will have to wait." He lets the words hang between us, heavy with unspoken threat—and promise. "But make no mistake, Mr. Honeyworth," he murmurs. "We will continue this discussion."

I nod, because it's the only thing I can do—because my mouth is useless, my body is betraying me, and my mind is a riot of want and panic and bone-deep need. Sterling doesn't look at me again. He doesn't have to. His nearness is a brand against my skin, his promise a hook buried deep in my chest. I sit there in the dark, trembling in the wreckage of my own self-control, knowing with awful, exquisite certainty that when that conversation happens, I won't survive it whole. And maybe—just maybe—I don't want to.