Page 4 of Silver Fox Grump
“Is that how you treat your colleagues?” I turn to the man who tried to embarrass my girl. “Call their work pathetic? Scare them so they drop things?”
I take another bite of her heavenly cupcake. Still, I bet it’s not as good as her pussy.
“I was trying to save you, sir. As you say, it’s too sweet, and this whole thing is ridiculous. I’m here to work for you, not to engage in some social club.” The young man has a smooth, square jaw and straight nose he’s probably proud of. As though he had anything to do with his face being pretty, and not having fought for everything he owns makes him a special, chosen one somehow. I have no time for that sort of arrogance. I built and stole and clawed my way to where I am now, and genetics had nothing to do with it.
“You doubt my capacity to protect myself from a cupcake?” I say, a little louder, finishing the cake in two more efficient bites, and screwing up the paper. I will ensure everyone understands this lesson.
“No! You slay cupcakes, sir. I merely sought to save you the inconvenience…” He trails off. His gaze is fixed suddenly on my hands, so I reach out and drop the paper case before him. It bounces at his feet, with the rest of the ruined cupcakes.
He gulps, eyes not shifting from my wrists. He can’t see my tattoos, they begin in snaking patterns over my forearms. But he’s freaked out. It starts to dawn on the boy that he may have made a mistake. I see the realisation rising up his face like bile from his stomach.
“Pick it up. And the cakes, too.”
I barely watch as he prostrates himself, because the girl has followed the line of his eyes and is also looking at my wrists. She’s gone pale.
And then I notice. There’s a fine spray of red over my white cuff and dove-grey suit sleeve. No one could imagine that it’s my blood, and it’s not a smear, or a speck. This is the sort of pattern of blood that is created by an instrument of torture.
Damnit. Should have accepted the rubber gloves my second-in-command offered. But itjust doesn’t feel the same. And honestly, threats are better received from a guy in a suit, than one looking as though he’s about to wash dishes.
“Say sorry to her.” I nod at the girl as the man clambers back to his feet, the paper wrapper and wrecked cupcakes in his hands.
His pause tells me everything I need to know. He’s a dick.
“I apologise if you took offence.” He fails to look her in the eyes.
Can’t say I didn’t give him a chance, but if he can’t repeat “sorry”, he has no place in Morden.
“Florence, is Charlie done in the executive exercise suite?” I refer to my second-in-command.
“I believe not, Mr Blackwood,” comes the reply after a moment.
“Your lucky day.” He just avoided being murdered immediately by me not wanting to overload my staff with work. “Florence, as you know, runs the HR department. Since you don’t have the right instincts for working in this team, she will help you with the paperwork to leave Morden Company.”
“But—” the boy splutters.
“I might think Florence is full to the brim with the smelliest of shit when it comes to what’s needed to retain staff, but she’s better at this particular brand of bullshit than I am, and that’s why I employ her. But if you disrespect her,” I point at the short, black-haired girl who is watching this exchange open-mouthed, “you disrespect me.”
“Sir, you have to understand—” His backtracking is tedious, and intended to save his life.
“Don’t worry, you’ll have a generous pay-off.” My lips tighten into a thin line. “I suggest you use it to go on a trip somewhere far away and consider your choices.”
Florence takes a sharp intake of breath.
There’s a simple code in Morden. I have an excellent assassin—a woman in her forties who looks like someone’s bumbling mother—who disposes of anyone, anywhere in the world. Zoe loves nothing more than travelling for work. Apparently, she has a social media travel channel. Perfect cover. And if an employee leaves Morden and moves abroad, they’re never heard of again.
“You,” I glance back to the girl. “Come with me.”
I indicate the exit and practically herd her out of the room like I’m a bad, bad sheepdog who has just discovered a succulent, lonely lamb.
We don’t speak on the way up to my private office. It’s all I can do to not grab her. Scare her.
I’m not a caring pet dog, I’m a wolf, intent on consuming her. The only question is how best to do it.
Closing the door behind us, I sink into my office chair and regard my vulnerable little prey. She has followed obediently, and now stands before my desk, still clutching her empty cupcake tub, and looking the exact combination of confused but brave that is the recipe to undo me.
She’s young. Big eyes.
I consider some options: I could order her to lean over the desk and fuck her senseless. It’s a good one, and I like it, but it has the slight disadvantage of meaning I’ll have to kill at least some of the HR department when they object. And I’ll already be on thin ice from telling Florence to give a generous end-of-employment package to that prick so I can have him murdered for being awful.