Chapter 8
KNOX
She looks up at me with those wide eyes behind her rain-spattered glasses, her lips slightly parted, her breath coming in quick little puffs in the humid air between us.
Water streams down her face, plastering dark strands of hair to her cheeks and neck, and she is so small, so fragile, so utterly perfect.
I could kiss her. The thought thunders through my blood like a war drum, drowning out the rational thoughts in my head that sounds suspiciously like my clan's elder strategist. I can read the signs of battle readiness in the flush of her cheeks, the rapid flutter of her pulse at her throat, the way her body leans toward mine despite the cold metal at her back.
She is poised on surrender, waiting for me to claim the victory.
But this is not how a true warchief conquers.
My ancestors did not build their empire through hasty raids and impulsive charges.
They planned, they strategized, they waited for the perfect moment to strike and ensure total, devastating victory.
A kiss stolen in a doorway, rushed and desperate, with rain soaking our clothes and the battle with Vance still unwon—this is not the conquest Cypress deserves.
She is no common territory to be seized in a moment of weakness.
She is a kingdom, vast and complex and breathtaking, and I will not claim her until I have proven myself worthy of such a prize.
I step back. The movement costs me more than any wound I have ever sustained on the battlefield.
"The rain begins to slow." I clear my throat and gesture toward the street, where the torrential downpour has indeed begun to ease into a steady drizzle. "We should return to headquarters before the enemy regroups."
Cypress blinks at me, as the fog of desire slowly clears from her eyes, replaced by disappointment before turning into professional neutrality. She pushes her glasses up her nose with a hand that trembles slightly, whether from cold or something else I cannot determine, and nods briskly.
"Right. Yes. The office. We should definitely get back to the office and do... office things."
The awkwardness in her would be amusing if I were not currently fighting the most difficult battle of my entire existence against my own base urges.
I shrug off my suit jacket, which is soaked through and heavy with water, and hold it over her head like a makeshift canopy.
The fabric is useless for keeping her dry at this point, but the gesture seems to startle her, her eyes going wide again as she looks up at the dripping material and then at my face.
"What are you—"
"You are cold." I state the obvious because my brain has apparently lost the capacity for eloquent speech. "This will provide minimal protection, but it is better than nothing. We will move quickly."
I do not give her time to argue. My hand finds the small of her back, guiding her out of the doorway and into the street, and I keep the ruined jacket held over her head as we walk.
The rain has slowed enough that it no longer feels like being pelted with small stones, but it continues to fall in a steady, miserable drizzle that soaks through my shirt within moments.
The fabric clings to my skin, cold and uncomfortable, but I find I do not care.
All of my attention is focused on the small woman beside me, on the way she huddles close to my side to stay under the meager shelter of my jacket, on the soft sounds of her breathing and the occasional shiver that runs through her frame.
We do not speak during the walk back to the office.
The silence between us feels charged, electric, like the air before a winter storm, heavy with potential energy waiting to be released.
I am acutely aware of every place our bodies almost touch, every brush of her shoulder against my arm, every moment when the movement of walking brings her hip close enough to graze my thigh.
The restraint required to maintain appropriate distance while still keeping her sheltered beneath the jacket is a form of torture I would not wish on my worst enemy, and yet I endure it because the alternative—giving in to the primal urge to sweep her into my arms and carry her somewhere warm and private—would be a violation of everything I believe about honor and conquest.
By the time we reach the lobby of our building, we are both thoroughly soaked.
The security guard at the front desk takes one look at us and wisely decides not to comment, merely buzzing us through with a sympathetic nod.
The elevator ride to our floor feels interminable, the small enclosed space thick with the smell of rain and the lingering tension that has followed us since the doorway.
I stare straight ahead at the elevator doors, watching the floor numbers climb, and try very hard not to think about how easy it would be to press the emergency stop button and pin her against the wall.
The office is empty when we arrive, most of the staff having either gone home for the day or fled early to escape the storm.
The silence feels strange after the chaos of the trade show and the rain, too quiet, too still, and I find myself on edge in a way that has nothing to do with enemy combatants and everything to do with the woman shivering beside me.
"You need to get warm." I stride toward my office, my wet shoes squelching unpleasantly against the carpet, and retrieve the spare suit jacket I keep hanging on the back of my door for emergencies.
This one is dry, thank the ancestors, the charcoal wool soft and unmarked by rain.
I turn to find Cypress standing in the middle of the open floor plan, looking small and bedraggled and absolutely beautiful with her hair hanging in wet ropes around her face and her blouse plastered to her skin in a way that makes my mouth go dry.
I cross to her in three long strides and drape the jacket over her shoulders without asking permission.
The garment swallows her entirely, the shoulders hanging past her arms, the hem falling nearly to her knees, and she looks so adorably lost in the vast expanse of fabric that I have to physically restrain myself from pulling her into my arms. She makes a small sound of surprise, her hands coming up automatically to clutch the lapels, and then she does something that nearly destroys every shred of my hard-won control.
She buries her nose in the collar of my jacket and inhales deeply.
The sound she makes is quiet, barely audible, but to my ears it rings out like a battle horn.
A soft, breathy little sigh of pleasure that shoots straight to my groin and makes my entire body go rigid with want.
Her eyes flutter closed for just a moment, her expression one of such transparent enjoyment that I know she has no idea I am watching, no idea that she has just revealed something she probably meant to keep hidden.
She likes my scent. She finds pleasure in the smell of my skin, my clothes, the essence of me that lingers in the fabric.
This small, brilliant, human woman who has conquered my thoughts and invaded my strategy sessions and turned my carefully ordered existence completely upside down—she wants me.
Perhaps not in the same overwhelming, all-consuming way that I want her, but the desire is there, written plainly on her face for anyone with eyes to see.
I force myself to turn away before she opens her eyes and catches me staring. The effort required is monumental, but I manage it, striding back toward my office with a briskness that I hope conceals the turmoil raging beneath my surface.
"I need to send some correspondence to our new vendor ally," I call over my shoulder. "Confirm the terms of our supply agreement before Vance has a chance to poison the well. You should dry off. There are towels in the storage closet."
I do not wait for her response. I close myself in my office and lean against the door, pressing my forehead to the cool wood and taking several deep, steadying breaths.
The rain continues to patter against the windows, a gentle rhythm that does nothing to calm the storm still raging in my blood.
I can still see her face in that doorway, still feel the phantom warmth of her body almost touching mine, still hear that soft little sigh she made when she breathed in my scent.
Thirty days. I have thirty days to turn this company profitable, defeat Vance, and prove myself worthy of conquering Cypress Evans. It seems both an eternity and no time at all, and I am not entirely certain which prospect terrifies me more.
I push away from the door and settle behind my desk, forcing my attention to the battle at hand.
There will be time for other conquests later, when the war is won and I can pursue her with the single-minded focus she deserves.
For now, I must be a warchief first and a man second, no matter how much my traitorous heart rails against the prioritization.
The evening passes in a blur of emails and strategy documents and careful planning.
I hear Cypress moving around in the outer office, the soft sounds of her typing and organizing providing a strange comfort that I refuse to examine too closely.
She is efficient even when soaked and shivering, her dedication to our shared cause evident in every task she completes without being asked.
Twice I look up from my work to find her staring at me through the glass wall of my office, and twice she looks away quickly, a flush rising to her cheeks that has nothing to do with the warmth returning to her rain-chilled skin.