Page 24 of The Alpha's Broken Oath

“Yes. I accept your offer, Mr. Cross.”

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My first official hours as Deacon’s personal assistant have me seated next to him as the CFO and the board members drone on about quarterly projections and profit margins. The boardroom air is thick with the sterile scent of polished wood and stale coffee while the hum of the city down below coalesces with the voices inside.

My job is to write down the notes and minutes while listening to what the CFO is talking about. It’s a job I would normally do in my sleep, but it has proven difficult since I sat next to Deacon.

I have felt the weight of his eyes on me the entire time the meeting has been going on. He starts on my face, lingering on my lips before he traces the pulse hammering against my throat, and in the madness of it all, I can almost feel his physical touch on my skin: rough, greedy, and possessive.

The bastard doesn’t even try to hide it as his eyes graze the cleavage peeking from my dress. The action itself feels like he’s stripping me of my clothes one by one, and I can’t do anything about it other than try to close my thighs and pray to the Goddess that the meeting ends so I can run to the nearest washroom and catch a breath and possibly even try to soothe the throbbing ache between my legs.

“What do you think, boss?” One of the board members asks, I think it’s the CFO’s voice, but I can’t even tell anymore.

I don’t look at Deacon as he opens his mouth to speak. ” The contingency we’ll use to make sure we don’t face the same risks Wilfred put the company through is not entirely clear. Elaborate more on that.”

Deacon’s request sets the meeting running for another hour, and this time, he not only stares at me, but his leg brushes mine on purpose, no matter how much I try to avoid him under the table.

Almost three hours later, I watch as everyone trickles out of the boardroom, and I stand up, ready to leave this room, this building, and reach the confines of my home within thirty minutes. But that turns out to be wishful thinking.

“Where do you think you are going, Ms. Cavanaugh?” Deacon’s question has me confused.

It’s almost six in the evening, and everyone has left. Correction: every employee leaves the office at six, and seven at the latest.

“I thought we were done here, Sir.”

I ask the question while facing him, and I don’t miss the mischief written in his dark, heavy-lidded eyes.

“There’s more work to be done other than jotting down minutes for one measly board meeting, Ms. Cavanaugh. Unless you have a date waiting for you somewhere?”

He’s going to keep me here till midnight. I know it.

I also read the insinuation in his words. How easy would it be to tell him I want to rush home to see my babies because they are waiting for me and not because I have a date?

“I don’t think my personal life is any of your business, Mr. Cross. What else do you need me to do before I leave?”

CHAPTER TEN

DEACON

If there was one quality that Jake hated about his sister, it was her stubbornness. It’s seven years later, and Winter wears that stubbornness like a suit of armor she won’t let me get past. On our first day working together, she has proven to be a tough nut to crack. The entire day, I’ve forced her to be with me. She’s hardly let her guard down, let alone let me in. I’m starting to think that I can’t put a dent in those walls she’s built so high to keep me out.

Her workstation being in my office means we are seated in the same room, but not once has she flicked her gaze at me. Since the meeting with the CFO ended a few hours ago, I’ve tried engaging her in conversation, but my mate has done nothing but shut me out since I told her she wasn’t done for the day.

City lights from the world outside penetrate past my windows, but there’s nothing that beats the view of the moon’s light falling on Winter’s desk and, by extension, falling on her, too. Sounds of the air conditioner and the bustling cars from down below distantly reach us, but all I can hear is the sound of her breathing as she, yet again, grows frustrated at the situation.

My wolf’s impatience flays me raw from the inside. I can taste his wounded ego so sour in my mouth, and, although his primal instincts revolve around getting Winter to want us back and possibly kiss her again, I try to get Winter’s attention another way.

Dragging my eyes on her again, I drink in the sharp features of her face, including her high cheekbones that are dusted with a pink blush. I drink in the way her brows furrow as she goes over the quarterly reports, how her lips curl, and how she worries her bottom lip into her mouth because she doesn’t seem to understand anything on the sheet of paper she’s holding. Most importantly, I think about how those long, toned legs would look great against my face as I eat her core out.

Goddess, have I missed the taste of what’s between her legs. My memory is still fresh when it comes to Winter, and so is the memory of how addicting she tastes and how pretty she looks when she’s coming from my fingers alone.

Looking at her now and going back to that night, one thought festers in my mind. I should have marked her. I should have claimed ownership of her that night. Marking her would have meant me sinking my fangs into her neck and being one with her. That sort of thing would have also required Winter to become less anxious and mentally prepared; otherwise, if she wasn’t, there were the chances of her bleeding out or experiencing pain more than she should have. Looking back now, I should have left my mark, which would have presented itself as a tattoo pattern on her neck.

Maybe we wouldn’t be here if I had done so. Maybe rejecting her but still putting my mark on her neck would have assured her I wanted her to be mine, but circumstances forced me not to keep her.

Testing the waters as to why she’s been checking the watch on her wrist for close to ten minutes now, I break the silence that has stretched on between us, hoping my thoughts about her having a date have no roots.

“You seem upset, Ms. Cavanaugh. Is something the matter?”

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