Page 10 of A Secretary for the Bratva Boss
My fingers still. I close my eyes, and I know the answer. The thought alone makes heat bloom low in my stomach.
“Hey, new girl.”
My eyes fly open. Alex Jameson from HR is leaning against my desk, a goofy grin on his face. “Talia, right? Burning the midnight oil?”
“Just finishing up,” I say, forcing a polite smile.Go away.
“Come on, live a little. It's Christmas.” He wiggles his eyebrows and pulls a sprig of mistletoe from his pocket, dangling it over my head. “You know the tradition.”
Heat prickles at my nape, hot and uncomfortable.I hate this, being put on the spot. The forced cheer, the expectation.“Very funny, Alex. I’m sure that’s against about a dozen HR policies you wrote yourself.”
He laughs, leaning closer. The smell of stale champagne rolls off him. “It’s Christmas spirit. Who’s gonna tell?”
He lowers his face, and a knot of panic tightens in my gut. I lean back, my hand coming up to push him away, but then the air in the room drops twenty degrees.
The laughter dies in Alex’s throat. My own breath freezes in my chest.
Anton is standing there, having emerged from his office as silently as a panther. He’s holding his office door open, his body framed in the doorway, a monolith of pure, cold fury. His expression is utterly calm, but his eyes—they’re locked on Alex, then on the mistletoe, then on me. They’re not gray anymore. They’re black.
“Get away from her,” Anton says. The words are flat, devoid of emotion, and more terrifying than any shout.
Alex stumbles back, the mistletoe falling from his numb fingers. “Mr. Ismailov. Sir. It was just a joke.”
Anton takes a slow step forward. His focus is entirely on the man who dared to touch what he’s already claimed. “You are the head of Human Resources, are you not?”
“Yes, sir.” Alex’s voice is a squeak.
“And you don’t understand the simple concept of consent?” Anton stops beside my desk, his presence a wall of heat and power at my back. “You thought it was appropriate to corner a female employee?”
“No, I—it wasn’t like that—”
“Pack your things,” Anton cuts him off, his voice low and sharp as stone. “Security will escort you out. You are finished here.”
Alex’s jaw goes slack. He sees the absolute finality in Anton’s eyes and practically flees.
The silence he leaves behind is deafening. My heart pounds.He just ended a man's career. For me.Anton doesn’t move. He just stands there, radiating a possessive energy that blankets the entire floor.
Then, he turns his head, his gaze finally falling on me. “My office. Now.”
My legs feel unsteady as I stand. I follow him into the lion’s den. The door clicks shut behind us. The air smells of leather, pine, and him.
He turns to face me, a tense silhouette against the city's lights. “Did you want him to kiss you?”
The question is low, dangerous.
“What? No,” I whisper. “Of course not.”
He watches me, his eyes searching my face. Then he walks back to the door, opens it, and plucks the discarded mistletoe from my desk. He closes the door again, sealing us inside. He stalks back toward me, holding the small green branch as if it’s a weapon, and stops so close that I tip my head back to see his face.
“He was right about one thing,” he murmurs, his voice a low growl. “It is tradition.” He lifts the mistletoe between us. A challenge. “The question was wrong. It is not, ‘did you wanthimto kiss you.’ It is… do you wantmeto kiss you, Talia?”
My breath hitches.Don’t do this. Don’t want this. The moment you reach for something, it slips through your hands.
“What about the rules?” I whisper, the last gasp of my professionalism. “HR…”
A dark, humorless chuckle rumbles in his chest. He takes another step, closing the final inch between us. His body is a wall of heat. “I am an Ismailov… we have no rules.” He lowers his head, his mouth hovering a breath from mine. "So I ask youagain. Do you want me to kiss you? Because if anyone kisses you here, it will be me."
My breath hitches. This is wrong—he's my boss, this is my job, I need this paycheck—but the way he says it, like it's already decided, has my knees quaking. "Sir, I—"
