Raven's Point of View
Silence strangled the room... until the door EXPLODED "Fucking useless pieces of shit," a deep voice roared from the hall.
I jumped so hard I nearly choked on my own breath.
Then he walked in.
A man-no, a tower-stormed into the office, slamming the door shut behind him with his dress shoes. He was giant. Huge. Built like he fought gods for fun. And he looked so fucking pissed that even the air backed away from him.
He kept cursing under his breath as he walked, voice low and vicious.
"These incompetent motherfuckers... I swear to fucking God-"
I froze. My brain? Gone. Deleted. Rebooting.
He wasn't just tall.
He was massive.
Thick muscles everywhere. Shoulders broad enough to block the damn sunlight. His dress pants were designer-expensive as hell-and fit him like he was made for them, hugging strong thighs that could probably break ribs.
His shirt was black, long-sleeved, expensive fabric stretching over a chest that should be illegal. He had shoved the sleeves up to his elbows, and that's when I saw them.
Veins.
Tattoos.
Arms built like weapons.
Thick, veiny, ink-covered forearms that flexed every time he moved. Lines of black and color wrapped around his skin like art too sinful to display anywhere else but on him.
And his neck-
Oh God.
His neck was covered in intricate ink, climbing from collar to jaw, patterns I couldn't even process because I was too busy staring. Both ears were pierced with diamond studs that caught the light and sparkled like little explosions.
Who the hell walks into a corporate office looking like he just came from a gang war AND a runway?
His black hair was messy, like he kept dragging his hands through it out of pure rage. Strands falling over his forehead in the sexiest, most dangerously careless way imaginable.
He looked like sin.
Like trouble.
Like the final boss of every nightmare-and every fantasy.
Then his eyes lifted.
Dark.
And the moment they locked onto mine-
they didn't just darken...
they shifted, like something dangerous woke up behind them.
The temperature seemed to drop.
He stopped moving.
Chest rising, falling.
His gaze dragged over me once-slow, sharp, cutting.
Every nerve in my body screamed run.
He looked at me the way a wolf studies something it isn't sure whether to eat or ignore.
He didn't blink. Didn't speak.
Just stared-silent and lethal-like he was analyzing every flaw, every weakness, every pathetic inch of me that didn't belong in his world.
Then-
His lip twitched.
Not a smile.
Not even close.
More like I irritated him just by existing.
His voice came next-deep, rough, cutting.
"Who the fuck are you?"
It wasn't a question.
It was an accusation.
My throat tightened. "I-uh-I'm-"
He lifted a hand.
Not a gentle stop.
A warning.
"Don't stutter in my office," he said, his voice dropping lower. "I don't tolerate weakness."
My knees nearly buckled.
"I asked," he said again, stepping closer-so close the floor seemed to vibrate under his weight-"who the fuck are you?"
"My name is Raven," I managed, my voice barely scraping out.
He scoffed.
Actually scoffed.
"Raven," he repeated, like my name personally offended him. "You look like you crawled out of a thrift store dumpster, and you let my receptionist bring you in here?"
Heat rushed to my face, my chest tightening painfully.
"I-I was told the position was open-"
He let out a dark laugh.
"Position?" His eyes dragged down my body slowly, deliberately, like he was stripping me apart piece by piece. "You're dressed like someone who steals staplers, not like someone who works for me."
I swallowed hard.
I should walk out.
I should leave.
But I couldn't.
I needed this job.
He stepped closer-too close. His scent filled my lungs, sharp and expensive, making my legs shake.
He lowered his voice so only I could hear it.
"Try not to waste my time, sweetheart. I fire people before they finish introducing themselves."
My pulse roared in my ears.
He moved past me, brushing my shoulder on purpose-hard-like a warning.
"Now," he said, tilting his head slightly.
"Prove you deserve to stand in my presence."
He turned his back on me like I was nothing, heading straight for the mini bar tucked into the corner of his ridiculous, museum‑worthy office.
His huge, carved-from-marble back flexed with every step. Tattoos crawled up the back of his neck, disappearing under his shirt collar, the ink almost mocking me with how bold, how dark, how dangerous it looked. His broad, terrifying shoulders shifted as he grabbed a crystal decanter like he wanted to break it.
I swear my breath got stuck in my throat.
He poured the drink like someone who's done it a thousand times out of boredom. Then-
He tilted his head back.
And gulped.
Hard.
Loud.
God. I heard every single swallow. Heard it slide down his throat like the entire room had gone silent just for that sound.
My legs literally pressed together on instinct.
My panties?
Gone. Dead. Done for.
Ruined by a man whose name I didn't even know-and somehow that made it worse.
Then-
SLAM.
He threw the expensive crystal glass onto the mini bar. Not placed. Slammed. Loud enough to make me flinch and whip my head toward the noise like prey.
He didn't apologize. Didn't even look at the glass. He just walked toward his desk with that slow, predatory confidence like the ground was lucky to hold him up.
He sat down, leaned back in his massive leather chair like a king who was already bored of me, then finally lifted his eyes to mine.
Dark. Cold. Irritated.
Like my existence was already pissing him off.
His voice dropped low, sharp, rude as hell:
"Sit. The. Fuck. Down."
He didn't gesture with his hand. He just jerked his chin toward the chair in front of his desk-like I was a disobedient dog he was already tired of commanding.
My whole body went hot.
I didn't even move at first. I was too stunned. Too overwhelmed. Too-
He narrowed his eyes.
"Now."
That single word hit harder than the slam of the glass.
My breath caught. My knees wobbled. And without thinking, I stepped toward the chair like something in me recognized exactly what kind of man he was:
Unhinged. Cruel. Untouchable.
And like an idiot?
I obeyed.
Everything on him was clean, expensive, sharp...
Except the way he looked at me.
Like I was trash on the floor he hadn't decided if he should ignore... or throw out.
He didn't say a word. Just reached for the stack of papers on the corner of his desk.
But before he grabbed it-
He brought his hand up to his mouth.
And I swear my heart stopped.
He parted those red, plump lips...
slipped two fingers between them...
and wet them with one slow, effortless drag.
A soft click of his tongue.
Like he'd done it a thousand times.
Then he pulled his fingers away-glistening for a second-and reached down to lifting the paper like it weighed nothing.
My thighs pressed together on instinct.
His hands were massive-veins bulging, tattoos carved over every knuckle and finger, black and colored ink crawling up his forearms before vanishing under the rolled cuffs of his shirt.
He didn't look at the paper-not at first.
He looked at me.
Right through me.
Cold.
Assessing.
Annoyed.
Like he couldn't believe I existed in his space.
He finally glanced down, flipping the page with those wet fingers, voice low and unimpressed when he finally spoke.
"...You came dressed like this?"
Like I wasn't even a person-just a problem.
"Experience?"
The word wasn't a question. It was an attack, punched out of his chest with irritation.
I swallowed. "Well, I-I haven't exactly worked as a personal assistant before, but I'm a fast learner and-"
He exhaled slowly, dragging his tongue along the inside of his cheek like he was restraining himself from snapping. His elbow hit the desk; two fingers pressed into his temple.
"So you have no experience."
It wasn't a question.
It wasn't even an observation.
It was a verdict.
"I-I've worked before," I whispered.
He didn't blink. Didn't soften. Didn't give me a single inch.
"Where."
Not where did you work. Just where, like pulling words out of me was a waste of his breath.
"I... I worked at a small café for a bit, and I helped my friend's cousin with-"
A sound left him.
A low, dark chuckle.
Not amused.
The kind a man makes when he realizes he's already done.
"A café," he repeated flatly, disgust dripping off the word. "And 'helping'-" He lifted two fingers, air quotes slowly and deliberately. "-is not a job."
Heat rushed to my face. "I-I know, but I can-"
"I don't hire amateurs."
He didn't raise his voice.
He didn't need to.
His fingers drummed against the desk-slow, irritated taps that coiled my stomach tight. The sound echoed through the massive, expensive office like a countdown.
"This isn't some cute little place where you make coffee and smile at idiots for tips."
My breath caught.
He didn't even look at me when he said it.
He looked bored.
"I learn fast," I said quietly, gripping the chair so my hands wouldn't shake.
That's when he finally looked at me.
A long, cold stare. Head tilted slightly. Eyes narrowing like he was examining something defective.
"Do you?"
I nodded, but I already knew it didn't matter.
"Because from where I'm sitting-" His gaze dragged over me, slow and sharp, measuring every inch. "-you don't look like someone who can handle pressure. You look like someone who cries when a customer raises their voice."
My throat tightened. I just stared at him, stunned.
He let the silence suffocate me.
"You don't belong in this building."
My chest hollowed.
"You wouldn't last five minutes working for me."
He said it casually. Like he was commenting on the weather.
It hurt more than yelling ever could.
I opened my mouth-maybe to defend myself, maybe to beg-but he lifted his hand.
Not to stop me.
To silence me.
"Don't," he muttered. "Don't embarrass yourself with some cute little speech."
My stomach dropped.
I shut my mouth.
He glanced down at the papers on his desk like I was already erased.
"Look at you," he said under his breath, leaning back like he was disappointed in humanity itself. "You walked in here shaking, eyes wide like a scared kitten, and you think you can survive in my office?"
He scoffed, shaking his head with a cruel smirk.
"You're in the wrong building, sweetheart."
Sweetheart.
The way he said it felt like a slap.
"I-I can do it," I whispered before I could stop myself.
He froze.
His gaze snapped back to mine.
He didn't blink.
Just stared.
Then he leaned forward, forearms braced on the desk, muscles flexing as his voice dropped into something dark. Low. Dangerous.
"If I told you to answer twenty emails in five minutes, you'd panic. If I told you to make a call, you'd stutter." He paused, eyes dragging over me slowly. "If I raised my voice-just once-you'd cry. And I don't have time to babysit."
I swallowed hard.
His lips curled-not a smile.
A warning.
"This job will eat you alive."
A beat.
"And so will I."
He leaned back, flicking his fingers dismissively.
"You should leave."
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