3. Harlan #2
“Oh, fuck off, we all know you need more staff, not less. You’ll be fine,” I say with a bitter laugh. “My department’s the one that’ll take the biggest hit. More models, since they bring in the money, fewer designers and stylists.”
“You’re deflecting,” Silas says dryly. “She nearly ran me over in the corridor, and it was clear she’d been crying.”
My chest tightens, breath pulling shallow like my body’s gearing up for something I don’t want.
I shove the feeling down hard.
I swear to all that’s holy, Silas is the only person on Earth who can spike my blood pressure this fast.
The way he’s looking at me now, that cocky, knowing glint in his dark eyes, is enough to make me want to flip my entire desk just to wipe that smirk off his face.
Instead, I keep my hands wrapped around the edge of the desk, white-knuckled, holding myself together by a thread.
He’s not going to get a reaction out of me—not when he’s so desperate for one.
“She’s a distraction,” I say flatly, like saying it enough times will make it true. “I explained what is expected of her going forward, and she agreed. She never pushed back, and didn’t question anything. It’s not my fault she doesn’t have a backbone.”
I try to breathe through the tension, try to clamp down on the hurricane building in my chest, but it’s useless.
The truth of what I am—what I want—burns between us like a neon sign. Silas can see it.
He always does.
“She’s a distraction,” I repeat, colder this time. “I’m her boss, and it’s my job to make sure she understands what is appropriate in the workplace. Her scent is not.”
I keep my voice flat and mechanised—robotic and unfeeling.
It should work. Until my stupid fucking brother laughs.
He actually laughs. At me.
“You think you’re fooling anyone? You can barely keep your knot to yourself, Brother,” he taunts. “I guarantee your jaw is fucking aching whenever you think about her—the urge to bite, to claim, too strong to ignore.”
He relishes how much it pisses me off.
I lean back in my office chair, crossing my arms so I don’t lunge across the desk and strangle him.
“It’s nothing I can’t handle,” I snap, even as my body proves otherwise. “I’m not going to let a sweet-smelling omega destroy my entire career. Or my life.”
He lets the silence stretch to see what I’ll do. Eventually, he clicks his tongue, grins, and says, “She agreed to what you said? Just like that?”
I remember the wounded look in Cassie’s eyes, the tremor in her voice when she said, “Yes, sir.”
The way her hands twisted together in her lap—too small, too delicate, like she was trying to make herself smaller for me.
Like she thinks conceding is the right answer—as if keeping the peace matters more than protecting herself.
Fuck.
The memory alone makes my chest ache, and I hate that Silas can make me relive it.
“She’s smart,” I grit out. “She knows how things work here. Or at least she should.”
He cocks his head. “You mean she knows how you work.”
There’s a dangerous edge to his voice now—not a threat, exactly, but something sharper.
“You think you’re protecting her by keeping her at arm’s length? Or are you just protecting yourself?”
I bark out a humourless laugh, my nerves scraping raw. “Don’t psychoanalyse me, Si. I’m doing what needs to be done.”
“Yeah?” He’s baiting me, waiting for the explosion. “You looked her in the eye and told her she was a problem. That she was… what, unprofessional? That her entire biology is an inconvenience to you? Have you heard yourself?”
“That’s not what I—” I start, but he cuts me off with a raised hand.
“You’re doing a great job of fucking this up, you know that? She idolises you. Actual hero worship. This could be something good for you, but instead you’re stomping on it every time you open your mouth.”
He shakes his head, and for the first time, there’s a flicker of disappointment in his eyes. I hate it more than the smugness.
I grit my teeth so hard I’m afraid they’ll crack. I want to argue. I want to say she’s better off not getting mixed up with a fucked-up mess like me.
But I can’t say it aloud because that would mean admitting how much power she has over me.
“She’ll get over it,” I say. She has to.
Girls like her either learn fast or they won’t last.
My fingers curl into fists against the desk, the bite of the wood doing nothing to curb my anger.
“Nobody’s saying you need to make the decision today,” Silas says calmly. “Get to know her. Let her get to know you. This is… fuck, do you not realise how lucky you are? How lucky we are. Sharing a mate—being part of a pack together.”
“Been there, done that—look how that fucking turned out,” I hiss.
He sighs. “Just… don’t break her, Harlan. I don’t think she’d survive it.”
I have no retort for that. My chest burns with the effort of holding it all inside—every ugly, dangerous want clawing to get out.
I look down.
“I won’t,” I say too quietly.
“Let’s hope you don’t,” he says. “She’s not going anywhere, Harl. You can’t ignore it. You’ve scented her now—that bond isn’t going anywhere.”
“She hasn’t scented me,” I snap.
I glare at him, but he’s immune. The smugness is back, but now it’s tinged with something lighter.
“Careful, Harlan,” he purrs, eyes flicking up and down my body with snake-like precision. “Your knot might stage a coup if you keep denying it like that.”
I grit my teeth and point a finger at him, but the warning gets choked off by the mortifying awareness of my traitorous body. Heat crawls up my neck, my jaw locked so tight I can feel the pain radiate into my ears.
All because of her.
“Get. Out.”
He ignores the command, rocking idly backward in the chair, grinning like the world’s most insufferable cat. “We both know you don’t want me to leave. This is the interesting part—the part where you start to unravel after years of playing the unshakable prick.”
“Fuck off.” My words come out like a hiss, but Silas only clicks his tongue in amusement.
His gaze drifts lazily over me.
Then down.
Then back up again.
His grin widens.
“Holy shit, Harlan.”
I shove back from the desk so hard the chair rolls.
“It’s not like that,” I manage, even as my body proves otherwise.
“It’s exactly like that,” he says, voice dropping to something almost sympathetic. “Doesn’t matter how many decades you spent perfecting your routine, Harlan. Nature doesn’t care about your little rules. Here you are, practically humping your desk like a teenager in a rut.”
“Keep going, and I’ll throw you through that fucking glass,” I hiss.
“Oh, give over. You’re hard,” he says dismissively. “It’s not like it’s a secret. I can see it from here—never mind smelling it.”
“I warned you,” I growl, but even to my own ears, the threat rings hollow.
Silas raises both hands like he’s surrendering, though the amusement never leaves his eyes.
“Maybe you should heed your own advice and douse yourself in some neutraliser again,” Silas taunts. “You wouldn’t want Cassie getting a whiff of this, would you?”
“Get out!” I roar.
He straightens up, completely unbothered, as he flashes that infuriating, lopsided grin.
“Anyway, if you’re done being a drama queen, we’ve got a meeting in fifteen. Let’s get yourself under control so you don’t fuck that up as well.”
“Go fuck yourself,” I mutter, but I’m already reaching for the folder on my desk.
Silas makes a show of smoothing his tie and clipping his jacket back into place before he lingers at the door.
“You can’t ignore her forever, you know,” he calls over his shoulder.
I ignore him. Or at least, I pretend to.
The door closes, and I’m alone again, but not really—she’s still here.
Her scent is still here. All sugar and cream and innocence, clinging to the air like the aftermath of a storm—heavy, inescapable, wrapping around me like it belongs there.
I hate that it calms me as much as it infuriates me.
For a long moment, I sit at my desk, staring at nothing, feeling the pull of something I refuse to name but can’t ignore. I try to think about the campaign, the compliance officer, anything else, but every thought drags me back to her.
Finally, when I’m sure Silas is gone, I let my head drop into my hands again.
Fuck.
I’m so fucked.
There’s another knock on the door, lighter this time, timid.
I tense, expecting Silas to have doubled back for more ribbing, but when I look up, there’s no one there.
Strange. As I move to leave the office, I spot it—a tiny envelope slipped under my door.
It’s pale pink and barely bigger than a business card. Even without her scent attached to it, I know exactly who left it.
With a sinking feeling, I pick it up. My name is written on the front in neat script, glittery ink.
On the back is the faintest watermark of strawberries.
Oh, she’s really fucking determined to break me.
I don’t open it. Not yet. I just stand there, letter in hand, feeling the heat seep into my skin.
I’m already fucking ruined.
And I know—no matter what I tell myself or say to Silas—that ignoring her isn’t going to be possible.
Not by a long shot.
Little Miss Sunshine is going to ruin me—unless I ruin her first.