Page 10 of Bossh*le Daddy
He moved closer, and I pressed back into the chair instinctively. Not from fear—though maybe I should have been afraid. From something else. Something that made my pulse skip and my breath catch as he approached with measured steps.
"You've been crying again." Not a question. An observation delivered in that low voice that seemed to bypass my ears and go straight to my spine.
I started to deny it, to explain that it had been hours ago, that I was fine now, that I'd been working hard to fix everything. But the words tangled on my tongue as he stopped beside the chair. This close, I could see the faint shadow of stubble along his jaw, the way his hair had shifted slightly from its perfect style. Human details that somehow made him more dangerous, not less.
Without warning, he crouched beside the chair, one hand bracing on the armrest, the other on the desk. The position caged me in, surrounded me with his presence without actuallytouching. My rabbit was trapped between us, pink fur visible over my protective arms.
"You're not very good at hiding when you cry," he murmured, and his voice had gone soft in a way I'd never heard before. Almost... gentle? But gentleness from Damian Stone felt more dangerous than his coldness.
His eyes traced my face, cataloguing the damage—smudged mascara I thought I'd fixed, red-rimmed eyes that gave away hours-old tears, the way I couldn't quite meet his gaze. One hand lifted from the armrest, and for a breathless moment I thought he might touch me. My skin prickled with anticipation, with want I didn't know how to name.
A sharp knock shattered the moment.
His transformation was instant and absolute. In one fluid motion, he plucked the rabbit from my arms and straightened, his body blocking me completely from view. The rabbit disappeared into his suit pocket like contraband while his other hand pressed against my shoulder—gentle but firm—keeping me seated and hidden.
"Come in." His voice had returned to its normal register. Professional. Cold. Nothing like the murmur of seconds ago.
The door opened to reveal one of the junior executives—Marcus? Martin?—looking harried and holding a tablet. "Mr. Stone, sorry to disturb you. The Tokyo call has been moved up. They're waiting on line one."
"Tell them five minutes." Damian didn't move from his position shielding me. His hand remained on my shoulder, thumb pressing slightly into the muscle there. A reminder to stay still, stay quiet, stay hidden.
"Of course, sir. Also, Legal sent the Morrison clarification for your approval—"
"Email it." The dismissal in his tone was absolute. "That's all."
Marcus-Martin hesitated for a second, probably trying to peer around Damian's broad frame, curiosity evident in his posture. But another step forward from Damian, subtle but unmistakably threatening, sent him scurrying back.
"Yes, sir. Five minutes."
The door closed again, and I released a breath I didn't know I'd been holding. Damian remained still for another moment, his hand warm through my thin blouse. Then he stepped back, reaching into his pocket.
The rabbit emerged unharmed, if slightly rumpled from her brief confinement. He held her carefully, respectfully even, those elegant fingers gentle against worn fur. When he placed her back in my lap, his fingers brushed mine—brief contact that sent electricity up my arm.
"Thank you," I whispered, the words inadequate for what felt like a monumental kindness.
He studied me for another long moment, and something shifted in his expression. Not soft—I didn't think Damian Stone did soft—but perhaps understanding. Like he recognized something in me that matched something in him.
"There’s nothing wrong with crying. But don't letthemsee you cry, little one." The words were quiet but carried weight. A command, yes, but also advice. Protection wrapped in authority. His fingers ghosted over the rabbit's ear, not quite touching my hand but close enough that I felt the warmth. "They're sharks. They'll smell blood in the water from three floors away."
I nodded, not trusting my voice. The rabbit felt heavier in my lap, weighted with new meaning. He'd held her. Hidden her. Returned her without mockery or judgment.
He straightened then, rolling his shoulders, and the spell broke. The mask of cold professionalism slid back into place, though perhaps not quite as firmly as before. I could see the seams now, the places where something else showed through.
"Go home," he ordered, moving toward his desk. "Be here at six tomorrow. We have the Singapore contracts to review before the seven a.m. call."
Six. An hour earlier than my already early arrival. But I just nodded again, carefully extracting myself from his chair on legs that felt steadier now. The rabbit went back in my bag, hidden but somehow less shameful than before.
I made it to the door before his voice stopped me.
"Isla."
My name. Not "little one" or "Miss James" but my actual name, spoken in that voice that could command boardrooms and apparently my heartbeat. I turned to find him watching me, backlit by city lights, looking like everything I shouldn't want but did anyway.
"You did good work on the Morrison emails." A pause, weighted with something I couldn't identify. "Don't make me regret keeping you."
The words should have sounded like a threat. Another reminder of how close I'd come to being fired, how tenuous my position remained. But delivered in that tone, with that look, they felt like something else entirely. Like maybe being kept by Damian Stone meant more than just employment.
"I won't," I promised, and meant it more than any promise I'd ever made.
