Chapter 2 A Very Human Resource
A VERY HUMAN RESOURCE
MAGNUS
By five, I’m in the gym of my building. Iron plates clang, sweat dampens my fur, and the rhythm of exertion steadies me. I’ve learned over the years that discipline is my only salvation. Work my body until it trembles, and maybe I’ll think less about the other ways it demands release.
Deadlifts. Presses. Intervals until my heart pounds like a war drum.
Magnus the Minotaur wants indulgence, endless taking, endless grind.
But Magnus Trainor, CEO of Labyrinth Solutions, does not indulge—not in public, not carelessly.
He channels. He controls. He takes refuge in the private bathroom of his office.
By six thirty, I’ve showered and dressed in a charcoal suit sharp enough to cut glass. My hands move through the familiar motions of the tie—loop, pull, tighten, straighten. A ceremony, not a struggle. Presentation is part of the strategy.
I study myself in the mirror. Jacket tailored within an inch of its life, shirt starched, tie knotted cleanly beneath the curve of bone.
Even my pants are custom—zipper cleverly designed to give my tail access without compromising the fit.
To anyone else, I look composed. To me, it’s armor.
The world doesn’t need to know how much energy I’ve burned off already, or how much more hums beneath the surface, waiting. They’ll see a man in full control.
I smooth my lapels, square my shoulders, and head out. Judy, my sweet, infallible admin, will have an oat milk latte waiting by the time I arrive. She always does.
At seven sharp, she’s already outside my office, the very picture of human efficiency.
She’s been with me for a decade and knows me better than anyone: the brisk tone, the steady eyes, the way her hands never linger when she sets the latte in front of me.
A kindness wrapped in professionalism. A rhythm we’ve perfected.
“Morning,” she says, her warm tawny skin glowing under the fluorescent lights.
“Morning, Judy.” I take the coffee. Sip. The bitter edge blunts the other hunger gnawing at me. Barely.
She reviews my schedule, immaculate as always. “You’ve got finance at nine, Franklin at eleven, a board lunch at one, and Vanessa at three.”
“Noted.”
Her gaze flicks over me. She sees the tension in my shoulders—I know she does—but she never comments. I’ve grown protective of her. She keeps my world orderly, and I keep her safe.
“Another latte?” she asks, already holding it out.
“What would I do without you?”
“Certainly not spend your day fetching oat milk lattes from the coffee stand in the lobby.”
I smile at her. The one I’ve practiced in the mirror. Tidy. Wide and welcoming but softened around the edges—an attempt to look approachable, not overpowering.
The caffeine doesn’t really soothe me—it’s no substitute for what my body demands—but it's a ritual, like the alarm. Like the iron. Structure over chaos.
My office is order incarnate: black walnut desk, leather-bound ledgers, shelves arranged with mathematical precision. Obsidian sculptures, one for each fiscal year since the merger. Success has a texture. And it requires polishing.
By nine thirty, after a bevy of calls and emails, I’m restless again.
Numbers blur, projections dissolve. My body hums with contained energy, coiled tight.
I’ve ducked into the private bathroom off my office once already to…
take care of things. It’s just enough to take the edge off. Functional, mechanical. A chore.
But the thought of Vanessa being unprepared gnaws at me.
She’s sharp, but she can be scatterbrained.
This account is too important. It’s not just PR—it’s PR for the city.
Our city. Sure, I want this win for Labyrinth Solutions, but it feels personal.
I want the chance to show how collaboration and differences can continue to make Crownpoint stronger, how our city thrives on what everyone brings to the table.
It’s what I built the company on. I head down to make sure she’s ready for this afternoon.
The walk through the executive floor is the same as always. Heads turn. Conversations stutter. They think I don’t notice, but I do. The flush of cheeks, the way spines straighten, the quickening of breath as I pass.
Maybe it’s the horns. Maybe the title. Perhaps a little of both. I keep my tail calm and try not to dissect it. Everyone seems to feel it. The pull. The gravity.
I keep my expression warm but professional, greeting by name.
“Morning, Lyle. Good work on those projections.” I smile.
Nod. Pat a few shoulders. “Thank you, Ms. Ortega, I’ll review that later.
” Every word is carefully measured. Encouraging but never intimate.
I let them bask in the fire's warmth without ever letting them get too close to the flame.
Because closeness would burn.
By the time I reach Vanessa’s office, I’ve settled back into the mask. Smooth. Controlled. Ready to tease her about preparedness, perhaps to offer reassurance. I lift my hand to the door and push it open.
“Vanessa—”
But she isn’t here.
Someone else sits behind her desk.
A man. Young and lean, his pale skin set off by neatly kept brown hair and round glasses framing steady brown eyes.
On paper, he’s ordinary. But the way all his features come together makes him unexpectedly striking.
His sleeves are rolled precisely to the elbow, papers squared before him as though this office has always been his.
Vanessa’s chair dwarfs him. It’s hard to tell while he’s seated, but I’d guess he’s not even six feet tall.
Then his gaze lifts to mine—wide for a heartbeat—and that flicker of surprise betrays him.
I stop. The shades are open, sunlight flooding the room, streaks cascading across his face, catching on flushed cheekbones. My nostrils flare and catch his scent. Anxious. Unsure. Ripe. Delicious.
For a split second, the air shifts. The world tilts.
The pull hits me like a body check. Not subtle. Not gentle. And then—dammit—my tail swishes once, hard and fast, slapping against the office door like a rookie trying to make an entrance. I freeze. Mortified.
I catch myself immediately, forcing my expression back to the polite, practiced calm that’s carried me through countless boardrooms and negotiations, all while praying he didn’t notice the thwap of embarrassment behind me.
“Not who I expected,” I say lightly, stepping inside. Voice even. Controlled.
The man straightens, clears his throat. “Jamie,” he says, offering his name as though it’s an apology.
His voice carries a thread of nerves beneath the practiced professionalism.
“Oh. Hi. I mean, hello.” He pushes his round, black glasses up the bridge of his nose. “I’m helping while Vanessa is out.”
“Ah,” I reply. “You must be one of the new junior strategists in Mr. Frost’s program.”
Franklin Frost—our formidable Director of Being Resources and, as the tabloids never fail to remind us, an abominable snowman who can freeze an entire boardroom with one arched brow.
He’s the mastermind behind Labyrinth Solutions’ Hiring Initiative, making sure every kind of talent has a seat at the table, and Frank won’t settle for anything less than the creative sparks that fly when everyone brings their best ideas into the mix.
Truth be told, he’s right. There’s always work to do.
Bringing new ideas, perspectives, and talents together isn’t automatic.
And yet, Frank has a way of turning hesitation into excitement, of making progress feel inevitable.
I admire his relentlessness. It’s what makes him the perfect yeti to lead br.
I let my gaze linger over Jamie for a moment longer, studying him the way I would a line item in a proposal.
He’s young. Or at least younger than me.
I’ll be fifty next year, but folks never can really tell my age.
I’ve looked this way since I was fourteen, and there’s not a single gray hair in my mane.
I’d put Jamie in his mid-thirties. He’s got those adorable fine lines humans get around their eyes at about that age.
There’s a faint smell of… peppermint. He doesn’t appear to have anything in his mouth, and my nostrils try to ascertain the source.
His nerves seem to betray him, but he’s not without a backbone.
If he’s made it through Frank’s gauntlet of interviews, then there’s more steel here than he lets on.
“Um. Well…” He sits up a little straighter, his chest puffing out slightly. “Yes, Jamie Torres. Junior Strategist. That’s me.”
Jamie Torres. The name clicks into place like a key.
I walk across the room, my pace calm, deliberate. The point is to reassure, not dominate. To lead the moment without crowding it. I extend a hand.
He hesitates for the briefest fraction of a second before accepting.
Perhaps he’s never given a Minotaur a handshake before—three broad fingers and a thumb, a grip built for strength rather than the intricacies of greetings.
I keep my claws trimmed short. Neat. It’s all part of the polished executive experience.
His palm presses into mine, firmer than I expected. Warm. Distinctly, unmistakably warm.
His scent—a sharp, heady tingle with just a trace of arousal—hits my nose, and my tail lashes out, smacking his leg before I even realize it.
“Magnus Trainor,” I say, pulling my tail back. “Vanessa’s… supervisor.” I let the pause land just so, neither threatening nor indulgent.
“Of course. You’re the CEO.” He nods. “Pleasure to meet you, Mr. Trainor.”
The way he says it—it isn’t like the others. Not breathless. Not fawning. His eyes linger on my face, curious. Evaluating.
And for the first time in a very long time, I feel seen.
I withdraw my hand before the moment can stretch. Smooth my jacket sleeve. Will my tail to be still. Gesture to the files he’s arranged. “I see she’s already put you to work.”
The left side of Jamie’s mouth turns up the slightest bit. “She left me copious instructions.”
“Good.” My voice is steady, but inside, that current is alive, sparking hot under my fur.
For a heartbeat, the office is quiet, the hum of the city drifting through the glass.
Vanessa’s sleek desk looms between us, a sharp divider I can’t ignore.
Sunlight slants through the window, painting him in sharp relief, like some careless deity meant for me to notice every line of him.
Peppermint drifts between us—subtle at first, then stronger as I lean in.
It takes a moment to place it: his hair.
The realization sends a flicker of heat through me.
I force myself to turn, to glance at the skyline instead. Professional. Restrained. “Tell Vanessa I’ll see her at three. And welcome to Labyrinth Solutions, Mr. Torres.”
“Thank you, sir.” Jamie nods again, polite, composed in that way junior staff try so hard to be. “But I’m not sure you understand. Vanessa isn’t here. She’s… sick. I’m going to be covering for her until she returns.”
The words land heavier than he likely intends. Covering. Stepping into her place. I keep my posture loose, my tone light, though my mind is already moving several steps ahead—budgets, pitch decks, client relations.
For a heartbeat, I study him. Jamie Torres.
Nervous, but not weak. The touch of his hand still lingers, the echo of warmth against my fur, foreign and distracting.
His gaze doesn’t quite flinch away the way others often do.
Sure, he’s inexperienced, but there’s something in the way he holds himself that suggests he might be more than a temporary stand-in.
I lower my chin. “Then it seems you and I will be working closely, Mr. Torres.”
His breath catches—just barely—but he tilts his head up and meets my eyes. “Yes, sir.”
I offer him a smile that has soothed rivals and charmed investors alike, carefully measured, no more than necessary. Inside, however, something stirs, the faintest pull toward the man at the desk. It is nothing I will allow to distract me.
My tail whooshes like a metronome I cannot control, betraying every pulse of my blood.
Business first. Always.
Still, as I move to take the chair across from Vanessa's desk, I can’t help but think: this will be… interesting.