Page 5 of Not an Assistant (Tales of the Dreggageggon #4)

Promoted

Z ahara

The contract in my hand feels like it’s been dipped in fire.

I can’t stop staring at the signature—my signature—scrawled across the bottom. It feels like a betrayal. A submission. A seal over something I haven’t agreed to in my heart, even though my body already did.

The job.

The office.

Him ... Acheron Draven.

I’ve barely slept. Barely eaten. I can still feel his presence in my skin like it’s tattooed there. I still smell him in my dreams. And now I’m sitting behind the desk I used to wipe fingerprints off, trying not to sweat through my dime-store blouse while pretending I know how to be an assistant.

My heart pounds too hard in my chest threatening to break my ribs.

My stomach is twisted in painful knots. The new badge around my neck buzzes softly with the magnetic sensor as I swipe into his floor.

The doors slide open with a hiss, and the scent of him, dark spice and midnight and danger, slides over me like a net. My breath catches.

He walks past my desk, and I can’t help but watch his every move. His voice is calm and even when he speaks. “Conference call in twenty minutes. I need the quarterly projections printed and sorted by department.”

I don’t even know where the fuck the printer is.

“Yes, sir,” I say quietly.

I find it by accident, digging through drawers for the master report packet.

My hands shake as I load the printer and start the job.

Pages spill out one after another. I staple, label, and stack.

The entire time, I can feel him watching me.

Not directly. But his presence hums against my spine.

Like he’s right behind me, breathing down my neck.

When I walk into his office to place the folders on his desk, he looks up. His eyes are unreadable. But his scent is sharp.

“Sit,” he commands and I comply.

He leans back in his chair and folds his hands over his chest. “You’re efficient.”

“Thank you,” I say softly, blushing.

“You’re also terrified.”

I swallow hard. “Yes.” It isn’t easy for me to admit that and I feel like crying all of a sudden. It’s been years since I’ve cried and I’m not about to break that streak. I blink back the burning feeling in my eyes and breathe deeply.

“Good. Fear keeps you alert.”

I want to smack him. He has no idea what I am going through. He stares at me for a long, uncomfortable moment. Then he leans forward and lifts a stray piece of lint off my blouse with two fingers.

My breath catches.

His fingers trail close to my collarbone. Not touching skin, but close enough that my whole body clenches.

“Did you feel it again?”

I nod. “It’s stronger now.” The words fall from my lips even though I hate saying the truth out loud.

He smiles, slow and dark. “It will only get worse.” I know he’s right and I hate it.

He stands and circles me like the predator he is. His hand brushes my shoulder. Not enough to be inappropriate. But enough to make my womb twist.

“You don’t have to keep fighting it,” he says softly.

“I’m not ready,” I retort softly.

He stops behind me, and I can feel his breath against the back of my neck.

“You will be.” Then he walks away.

****

T he rest of the day passes in a blur. I take notes, deliver messages, and manage his calendar. He rarely raises his voice, but he doesn’t need to. Everyone obeys him like he’s a god. Like speaking out of turn might cost them a limb.

Greta doesn’t come back but I feel the burn of her ghost everywhere.

In the glares from coworkers. In the tension between the secretaries and department heads.

They think I fucked my way into this job.

Or mind-controlled him. Or bribed him. Or worse.

They don’t know the truth. And neither do I, to be honest.

I eat lunch at my desk, my fingers trembling as I pick at a cold salad, starving and not hungry at the same time. My body hums with arousal I can’t turn off. Even when he’s not in the room, my core pulses like it knows he’s nearby.

He doesn’t look at me for the rest of the day. But I know he’s watching.