Chapter 12 Zatanna
ZATANNA
His fingers brush the corner of my mouth as he feeds me, his eyes never blinking, never straying.
The entire rec room has gone silent, the kind of hush that’s so thick it feels like pressure in my ears.
I can barely think. All I’m aware of is the strange, shameful ache curling low in my stomach, the memory of his hands on me, and the way his body felt pressed to mine.
My thoughts slip to things I shouldn’t be thinking about, to his mouth, his hands, the way he looked at me in the steam, hungry and lost.
The words are rough, almost a growl, meant for me alone, but they reverberate through the group. For a split second, I’m frozen in place, caught between wanting to disappear and wanting to follow him without question.
I glance around, suddenly hyper-aware of every set of eyes on us. Lina looks worried, Owen’s mouth hangs open, and a few others are pointedly not looking at either of us, pretending to be fascinated by their phones or the half-eaten cake on their plates.
I try to play it cool, sliding off the counter, smoothing my skirt. “Thanks, everyone. Cake was great.” I shoot Owen an apologetic smile, knowing I’ve left him in the lurch.
He just shrugs, murmuring, “We’ll talk later,” trying to keep things light, but even he looks relieved as I follow Aleksei out.
The hallway outside feels cooler with air easier to breathe, but my heart is racing as I fall into step behind him. His stride is purposeful, almost impatient, and I struggle to match it.
Inside, my thoughts are a riot—embarrassment for making a scene, confusion about what just happened, and a burning awareness of him that won’t go away. Was I imagining things, or was everyone in that room just as stunned as I was by the way he touched me? By the way I let him?
As I catch up, nerves jangle through me, every cell on high alert. What was that all about? I wonder, panic and anticipation mixing in my chest. And what does he want from me now?
The walk to his office is a blur. I’m clutching my hands together, my mind a jumbled parade of panicked possibilities.
What if he fires me? What if I just embarrassed myself beyond repair in front of the whole office? What if he brings up yesterday, or worse—what if he doesn’t? My brain refuses to settle, careening between panic and flashes of memory that make my cheeks burn.
And then there are the other thoughts, the ones I’m definitely not supposed to have about my boss. I press my thighs together, willing the heat to die down, praying I don’t look as wrecked as I feel.
When we reach his office, he pushes the door open and waits, holding it for me. It’s a tiny gesture—one I never expected from him—but it makes the moment feel almost… normal. The little flicker of gentleness, just for a second, eases some of the knot in my stomach.
“Sit,” he says, nodding to the chair across from his desk. His voice is steady, low, not quite friendly but not threatening either. The door closes behind me with a quiet click, sealing us in together.
The calmness in his tone makes it easier. I slide into the chair, fidgeting with the hem of my skirt, waiting for the axe to fall.
Before he can say anything, it bursts out of me. “Why did you want to see me? Please don’t fire me. I know I was late and the party was probably inappropriate, but—”
He holds up a hand, a faint smirk at the corner of his mouth. “Relax. I’m not firing you.”
I let out a breath I didn’t realize I was holding. I probably look half-crazed, but I don’t even care.
He turns to his desk, picks up a tablet, and slides it across the table toward me. “Here. Take a look at this.”
I hesitate, then pick it up, the screen flickering to life in my hands.
And wow. There are rows and rows—no, pages—of women.
Headshots, bios, LinkedIn links, Instagram feeds.
Like someone had merged the alumni databases of every Ivy League school with the cast list for The Bachelor, and then dumped them all into a spreadsheet.
Some are smiling, some are not, some look like they could run for Congress, and at least one looks like she could bench-press Aleksei.
I blink, scrolling. For a split second, a ridiculous thought pops into my head—what if he’s a serial killer and these are all his potential victims? Am I next? Is this a test? Should I run?
Or maybe this is some kind of ultra-exclusive dating app for billionaires, with a side of supervillain recruitment.
“What… is this?” I finally ask, my voice strangled somewhere between a giggle and a shriek.
He gives me that look, amused and annoyed in equal measure. “It’s the database. Of eligible women. You said you wanted to get started.”
For a split second, my brain lurches into the absurd. Oh my god. He’s a serial killer. This is how it starts. He’s going to make me choose his next victim and then he’ll start monologuing about his tragic childhood and there will be plastic sheeting and—
“Um,” I manage, fighting a grin at my own mental spiral, “what is this? Am I picking a contestant for a reality show, or… are you planning to murder these women, because if so, I need a head start.”
He almost smiles—almost—and I see something soften around his eyes. “No. No reality show. No murder. Those are the most eligible women in Manhattan. You’ll be reviewing their profiles, arranging introductions, and narrowing the list.”
“Narrowing the list for what?” I ask, hoping maybe I’m reading this all wrong. Maybe he’s looking for a secretary for his secretary. Or starting a modeling agency. Or, honestly, anything other than the insane reality I suspect.
He just watches me for a long moment, like he’s waiting for me to catch up. Then, with that maddening calm, he says, “Well, to find me a wife, of course.”
My mouth drops open. I stare down at the glowing parade of Manhattan’s finest, then back at him, incredulous. “You’re serious.”
He nods once, not a flicker of humor. “Deadly.”
I glance back at the tablet, then at his face, trying to decide if this is some sort of elaborate test or if he really expects me to play Cupid for a man who looks like he’s never even needed to ask for a date in his life.
“You’re serious,” I say, waiting for the punchline that never comes. He doesn’t even blink.
“This is why I hired you,” he replies, his gaze steady on mine. “You’re smart, discreet. I need someone who can do this well.”
I look down at the tablet, then back up at him, heat creeping up my neck. “You want me to find you a wife… after what happened yesterday?”
He leans forward slightly, elbows resting on his desk, eyes locked on mine with a challenge that’s impossible to ignore. “And what happened yesterday, Zatanna?”
His voice is smooth, but I can see it in his eyes—the dare, the spark, the memory of every forbidden thing I saw and heard and felt. He knows exactly what he’s doing.
For a moment, the office seems to shrink, the air between us thick and electric. I can’t look away, even though I know I should.
I swallow, caught between embarrassment and something deeper, darker, that makes me ache. “You know what happened,” I whisper.
His lips curl, the hint of a smile both dangerous and inviting. “I want to hear you say it.”
My heart thuds in my chest, louder than ever. The heat of his gaze pins me to the spot, every nerve tingling, every inch of me on edge. I try to steady myself, but my voice wavers, softer than I’d like.
“I… walked in on you,” I say, forcing myself to meet his eyes, “in a moment that was—private.”
He leans back just enough to draw in a slow breath, never taking his eyes off me. “That’s one way to put it.”
I shift in my chair, suddenly aware of how small this room is, how close he is, how the memory is already pulsing in my veins again. “It wasn’t intentional.”
His mouth curves, just slightly. “And yet here we are. You, in my office. Me, trusting you to choose the woman I’ll marry.”
There’s something dark and amused in his tone, like he’s testing the boundaries of what we can say to each other, how far he can push me before I break.
“And you’re sure you want me to do this?” I ask, my voice barely above a whisper. “Even after… everything?”
His gaze holds mine, hot and unflinching. “Especially after everything.”
The tension between us snaps taut, and for a wild, dizzy second, I want to tell him that every woman in that database could walk through that door and I wouldn’t notice any of them. That he could have his pick of the city and it wouldn’t matter—because I’m right here, burning for him.
But all I can do is nod, clutching the tablet a little tighter, trying to calm my breathing.
“Fine,” I say, my voice a shaky mix of challenge and surrender. “I’ll find you a wife.”