Chapter 13 Mattaniah
Mattaniah
Monday morning starts with the alarm and two blockers and ten minutes in front of the bathroom mirror practicing the face I'll need to wear for the next eight hours, pleasant enough to avoid correction but empty enough to avoid interest. The face that says I'm here to work and nothing else.
My body disagrees with the performance before I've even finished getting dressed.
There's a tenderness between my thighs that won't let me forget Saturday night, a low residual ache that flares every time I shift my weight.
Dominic's knot stretched me in ways I'm still feeling two days later, and every time the soreness reminds me of how it got there, heat crawls up my neck and my scent threatens to sweeten beneath the blocker.
"Get it together," I mutter at my reflection while I button my shirt. "You’ve gone to work on six hours of sleep and a hangover from Romano's Christmas party. You can survive this."
The reflection doesn't look convinced. My eyes are brighter than they should be and my skin has a flush underneath the warm tone that no amount of cold water can eliminate.
Even my curls look different, like my body has decided to advertise that someone has been running their hands through my hair for the better part of a weekend.
The car drops me at Hale Industries by seven thirty.
Richard is already at his desk when I arrive on the executive floor, and the morning slides into its familiar pattern of corrections and compliance.
My posture earns two raps of the ruler before nine o'clock.
My filing speed is inadequate. The coffee I bring him is too hot, then too cold when I bring a replacement.
"Better," he says to the third cup without looking up, which is the closest thing to praise I've received from him in six days.
I turn to leave when his voice stops me.
"A word, Mattaniah."
My feet freeze mid-step. Richard still hasn't looked up from his paperwork, his pen moving across the page in precise strokes, but his free hand gestures toward the door.
"Close that."
His office suddenly feels smaller the moment I close the door, his cologne filling the enclosed space until I can taste it on the back of my tongue. I stand by the door with my hands clasped in front of me and wait.
Richard finishes whatever he's writing, sets his pen down, before finally looking at me. His gaze moves over my face the way Dominic's did on Saturday night, except where Dominic's attention made me feel wanted, Richard's makes me feel inventoried.
"Come here."
I cross the room, Richard swiveling his chair to face me and gestures for me to stop when I'm close enough that his knees nearly brush mine.
"I like to do performance reviews with my assistants at the end of their first week." His voice comes off pleasant, the distaste beneath it more than obvious. "Identify areas for improvement. Establish expectations."
"Of course, sir."
"While you are also now family, I will not treat you any differently.
Your filing speed needs work, but that will come with practice.
Your coffee is inconsistent, but trainable.
Your posture—" He reaches out and presses two fingers against the small of my back, correcting a curve I wasn't aware of.
The touch lingers three seconds longer than it needs to.
"—requires constant correction, which suggests either defiance or poor early training. Which is it?"
"Poor early training, sir."
"Mm." He withdraws his hand but doesn't break eye contact. "Your mother's influence, I imagine. She strikes me as someone who prioritized other skills over proper presentation."
I keep my face blank because responding to that is a trap with no right answer.
Richard stands, the movement putting him close enough that I have to tilt my chin up to maintain eye contact.
His hand comes up and settles on my shoulder, his thumb finding the back of my neck and pressing into the same spot he found in the copy room.
"I've noticed my sons paying attention to you.
Dominic in particular. He's not usually interested in anything other than his work, but you seem to have caught his eye. "
"I wouldn't know anything about that, sir."
"No?" His smile doesn't reach his eyes. "Because my assistant mentioned you've been hovering around the elevator bank this morning. The one that goes to the twelfth floor."
Fuck. My face burns and there's nothing I can do to stop it.
Richard's thumb stills against my neck. "Whatever my sons are doing to you, I hope you remember who you actually work for.
Who signs off on your position here. Who your mother is depending on to keep her in the lifestyle she's clearly enjoying.
" His hand slides from my shoulder down my arm, squeezing once above my elbow before releasing me. "You may go."
I make it back to my cubicle on autopilot. My hands are shaking when I sit down, my neck still burning where his thumb pressed, and the first thing my body wants to do is get up and walk to the elevator bank again.
This time I know exactly why. By mid-morning the armor I’ve built up in this space starts developing cracks that have nothing to do with Ricthard.
The problem is that my feet keep wanting to take me places they shouldn't go.
The first time it happens I catch myself halfway to the elevator before I register that I'm heading toward the twelfth floor where Dominic's office is.
I stop in the corridor and stand there for a full five seconds trying to reconstruct what errand I was supposedly running before I admit that there is no errand. My feet just started walking.
I go back to my desk. Tamsin gives me a look over the partition that I pretend not to notice.
The second time it happens, I make it all the way to the elevator bank before I catch myself. My finger is hovering over the call button and I'm holding a folder from my desk that I grabbed on the way out because some part of my brain decided I needed a prop to justify the trip.
"What are you doing?" I whisper to myself. The folder contains last week's interdepartmental memos that have no business being anywhere near the twelfth floor. I tuck it under my arm and walk back to my desk.
Tamsin's look sharpens. "You okay? That's the second time you've gotten up and come right back."
"I'm fine, just can't remember where I was supposed to bring these." I wave the folder vaguely and sit down. My face burns because she is absolutely not buying it and I'm absolutely not fooling anyone, least of all myself.
The third time, right after lunch, I don't catch myself at all.
One moment I'm filing expense reports and the next I'm standing in front of Dominic's office door on the twelfth floor holding the same useless folder of interdepartmental memos.
His name is etched into the glass beside the door, his scent hitting me through the barrier.
My hand is raised to knock, my nose scrunching up in disgust at my behavior.
"You don't have a question," I mutter under my breath. "You don't have a file to deliver. You are standing outside your stepbrother's office in the middle of the workday because your stupid body dragged you here and you let it."
Even with those words, I knock anyway.
"Come in." His voice carries through the door and my pulse kicks up before I've touched the handle.
Dominic is behind his desk with his sleeves rolled to his elbows and a pen between his teeth, reading something on his monitor. He looks up when I enter and pulls the pen from his mouth, the slow curve of his lips telling me he knows exactly why I'm here.
"Mattaniah." He says my name like he's tasting it. "What can I do for you?"
"I, um." The folder suddenly feels ridiculous in my grip. "I had a question about the, um, the interdepartmental filing system. Tamsin said you might know the protocol for archiving last quarter's memos."
"Tamsin said that."
"Yes."
"Tamsin, who works on the executive floor, sent you to the twelfth floor to ask the CEO's son about a filing protocol."
My face is on fire. "It's a very specific protocol."
He leans back in his chair and the pen taps against his lower lip. "Close the door."
I obey, the click of the latch sounding louder than it should, and the room shrinks around us as his scent fills the enclosed space. My body responds immediately, the blocker straining against a swell of warmth in my belly that I grit my teeth against.
"Bring me the folder." He holds out his hand.
The walk across his office takes forever.
The folder feels more ridiculous with every step because Dominic's gaze tracks me the whole way and by the time I reach his desk I'm certain he can see the lie written across my face in neon.
I hold the folder out and his fingers brush mine when he takes it, a contact that sends heat up my wrist. He flips it open, glances at the contents for maybe two seconds, and sets it on his desk.
"These are last week's interdepartmental memos."
"Yes."
"There is no archiving protocol question."
"No." My voice comes out small. "There isn't."
He stands and rounds the desk until he's leaning against the front of it, close enough that I have to tilt my chin up to hold eye contact.
His scent is stronger here, concentrated by the warmth of his body.
His hand comes up and his thumb presses against the hinge of my jaw, turning my face to one side, then the other.
His eyes move over my features slowly enough that I feel each second of it on my skin.
"You came to find me." He states, leaving no room for argument.
"I didn't mean to. My feet just..."
"Your feet." The corner of his mouth twitches. "Your feet brought you down here with a prop folder because they wanted to see me?"
"That's not..." But it is, and we both know it, and the amusement in his expression makes me want to either kiss him or punch him. I'm horrified that both options feel equally appealing.