Page 4 of A Secretary for the Bratva Boss
"Retail management. Before that, waitressing to pay for school. Before that, whatever paid enough to keep the lights on."
"You've worked since you were—what? Sixteen?"
"Fifteen. Under the table at a diner near my high school."
His fingers drum once against the desk, and I track the movement. Long fingers. Strong hands. The kind that could—
Stop.
"No safety net," he says. "No family money to fall back on."
"No."
"And yet you're still fighting for that degree."
"Yes."
"Why?" He leans forward, elbows on the desk, and the movement brings him closer again. Close enough that I see the flecks of darker gray in his eyes, the faint shadow of stubble along his jaw. "You could have stopped years ago. Settled for less. Why keep going?"
Because I have to. Because it's the only thing that's mine, the only proof that I'm more than just another foster kid who aged out of the system and disappeared. But I don't say that. Can't say that.
"Because I'm going to finish," I say instead. "Even if it takes until I'm thirty. Even if it kills me. I'm going to finish."
His gaze sharpens, and for a long moment, he doesn't speak. Just watches me like I'm a puzzle he's trying to solve, and I feel stripped bare under that stare. Exposed.
Wanted.
The thought hits me like a slap, and I have to look away. Have to break whatever this is before I do stupid things like lean forward and—
"You're resourceful. Determined. These are useful qualities."
"Thank you."
"I wasn't complimenting you. I was stating facts." But there's an edge in his voice now, rough and low, and it does things to me. Makes my thighs clench, my breath catch. "This building, this office—everything that happens here stays here. You might see things, hear things. Names, numbers, conversations. None of it leaves this floor. Understood?"
A chill that has nothing to do with my wet clothes runs down my spine. "Understood."
"If you betray that trust, there are consequences." He leans forward, and the movement brings him so close I feel the heat radiating off him. "Severe consequences. Do you understand what I'm telling you, Miss Brooks?"
I should be scared. Should recognize this for the warning it is, take my broken boot and run. But I'm three weeks from eviction, my bank account has two digits, and pride doesn't pay rent
And God help me, the way he's looking at me makes me want to stay.
"I understand."
He studies me for a long moment, and I force myself to hold still even though everything in me wants to squirm under that gaze. Finally, he nods. "You start tomorrow. Eight a.m. Elena will handle your paperwork and security clearance."
Relief floods through me so fast it makes me dizzy. "Thank you. I won't—"
"Don't thank me yet." He picks up his phone like I'm already dismissed. But then he glances up, catches me mid-rise from the chair, and his gaze drops to my legs. Lingers there. "And Miss Brooks? Fix the boots. You'll be on your feet."
My throat tightens. "Yes, sir."
The title slips out automatically, years of service-industry jobs making it reflex. But his fingers still on the phone, and when his gaze lifts to mine, there's heat there—dark and dangerous and entirely inappropriate for an interview.
His pupils dilate. Just slightly. Just enough that I notice. "Good girl," he says, so quietly I almost miss it.
The words are like a physical touch everywhere. My pulse jumps. My breath catches. Heat pools low in my belly, and I have to press my thighs together against the ache.
