Chapter Text
Link to the playlist: Secretary
You really couldn't complain.
Maybe you should even thank your predecessor for missing deadlines. You now had a pretty nice job, with pretty good money, even if your boss wasn't exactly lovely.
Holding a stack of documents in your hand, you looked through the file numbers once more to make sure that every contract had been classified correctly. Not that you had ever made a mistake, but with Silco as your boss, you preferred to double-check before you plucked up the courage to hand them to him for his signature.
The heels of your high boots tapped softly on the carpeted floor, creating an intriguing echo. It was as if you were holding your head underwater. The entire floor he occupied had that edge. Wood and frozen time, because Silco wasn't the type to follow trends like a sheep. Oh no, this place practically smelled like money.
With a pen between your teeth and your eyes fixed on the text, you walked confidently toward your purpose — spending every day here, you knew the layout of the corridors by heart. You could find your way to his office even in the dark.
Assured that the person responsible for this had not botched their job, you raised your hand to knock on the door. If there was one thing you liked about this place, it was the fact that, amid the metal and glass everywhere, his office was... warm. Which was a bizarre description, as the boss himself was closer to ice than a mere flame.
“Come in.”
The echo of his voice seemed to cut through even from behind the door. Even though you were his secretary, you also had to wait for permission. In fact, you never asked if you could enter without notice — he never gave you any indication that it was allowed. In a way that you didn't bother to explain, there was respect between you.
“Sir,” you greeted him for the first time that day, stopping a few steps in front of his desk.
He didn't even look up from his work. At that moment, most people would have considered it a kind of downgrade — you hardly cared. You knew him well enough to know that Silco, of all people, would sooner bite his tongue than allow unnecessary pleasantries. You were here to work, not to entertain him with conversation.
You took a moment to discreetly look around; you would be lying if you said you didn't like this place.
Silco's office was dark in a way that felt deliberate, softened by dark wood and heavy rugs that swallowed sound. His desk stood firm and orderly, the window behind it casting a faint greenish glow that never quite reached the corners of the room. A low leather couch rested to the side, inviting in shape but not in promise, while a liquor cabinet gleamed quietly against the wall. A few paintings hung in muted tones, chosen less for beauty than for atmosphere. This was not a place meant to impress — it was a place meant to hold power.
You didn't know why, but there was some comfort in that.
After a moment, he waved you over. A lazy gesture of two fingers raised up for you to come closer.
“Speak quickly,” he almost growled, his voice sharp, but there was an underlying weariness — like he hadn't slept in days. “I don't have time for pleasantries today.”
He never had. Which wasn't strange at all, considering the work he took on. This man wanted to sink, and you couldn't stop wondering what he was running away from.
Without a word, you moved closer, entering the still palpable haze. The cigars he smoked constantly carried an intriguing scent of burnt sugar. Handing him the finished contracts, you couldn't help but notice another tension tightening his features. You doubted he still remembered what relaxing felt like.
Silco scanned the document briefly before giving a curt nod. The highest form of approval you could hope for and an expression of satisfaction.
“Finally,” his gaze then shifted from the contract to you, his good eye locked on your face. “Is that all you have for me today, or is there something else?”
You took a step back, clasping your hands behind your back. Not out of fear, but out of habit. Silco was unreadable to anyone, but you understood right after starting work that if you valued your head, you shouldn't invade his space. That air was his alone to breathe.
“That's all, sir.”
He exhaled through his nose, almost like a sigh of irritation. Something was bothering him, someone had pissed him off — someone was going to lose at least their fingers. Fortunately, it wasn't you — you had just found time for a manicure.
“Good. Now get out,” he waved you off dismissively before turning back to his work. “And don't let anyone disturb me unless it's an emergency.”
And with that, he turned his back on you. You stared at the back of the massive chair for a second too long before forced you feet to move leaving his office. The door clicked shut behind you as you felt a headache coming on.
Working for Silco wasn't difficult, even though he was incredibly demanding. As you leaned against the wall, massaging your temples, you pondered whether you wanted coffee, a cigarette, or some peace and quiet more.
Becoming a secretary wasn't your big dream. It was supposed to be a temporary job until you found something better. By hiring you personally, Silco gave you a harsh initiation with questions that made you want to leave halfway through, certain that you wouldn't get the job anyway.
The fact that he was doing the recruiting and not some pompous HR hack meant that whoever got the job would be better off if they took it seriously. Surprisingly — you dropped your favorite mug and spilled coffee on your legs — the next day a woman who seemed offended by the whole world called you to inform you that you got the job and would start on Monday. It was always that damn Monday.
You returned to your desk right next to his office, and your hands continued the work you had left to pick up the deals.
A year — that's how long you had been warming his chair, and not once did you get a reprimand from him. Coldness, harsh words, slight mockery when you asked about the obvious, but never a scolding. Because, allowing yourself to be arrogant, you knew how to do your shitty chores. The money he paid you was enough motivation to get off your ass and actually work instead of pretending.
Subcontractors paid, current shipping closed — anyone else in your place would have put their feet up on the desk and played another stupid game on their phone to kill time. Maybe you should have done that. Instead, you scanned his calendar to make sure that nothing escaped your watchful eye until the end of the year.
Damn it, you cared about this job more than you were ashamed to admit.
Surprisingly, about him himself, too. Even if on days like this he growled at everyone as if he were going to bite the head off anyone who breathed in his presence. No sane person would give a fuck about him or would have run away from this place long ago. Silco wasn't an easy boss, but he respected you and your work — that was enough.
Contrary to what you saw, what opinions circulated about him, you couldn't complain.
Standard working hours, a salary that allowed you to save money, clearly defined responsibilities and rules — all of this delighted your mind like a child who got a new toy for Christmas. You knew your place and what you had to do. Over time, it became comfortable and you stopped looking for a new job. There was no point, since this one was above what people thought of being a secretary.
The phone was silent, door closed as a sign that anyone who crossed the threshold would incur his wrath. Indeed, you had nothing to do. The problem was that this man had eyes everywhere, and that scratching at the back of your neck whispered that he would find out immediately if you started slacking off.
Silco was... a peculiar man. You had been studying him for a year, and you still knew nothing more than what he allowed you to see.
When you first saw him at the job interview, it took you a moment to look away from him.
His presence was defined by restraint rather than excess. Hair was pulled back with habitual precision, a style that spoke of control more than vanity. The scar that marked his face and the ruined eye were neither hidden nor displayed — they existed as facts, long since stripped of sentiment. You never asked about it. From the scraps of information you knew that it was an old wound from a fight with someone.
Damn it, you were only human, even with the scar he was handsome in that dangerous way, but you never let your thoughts stray further than that one opinion.
Always dressed in black and deep red, the high collar framing his throat like a deliberate boundary, the tailoring sharp, purposeful, made to command a room without announcing itself. There was nothing flamboyant about him, nothing careless. Authority settled on him naturally, in the way he stood, in the stillness of his gaze — a man who did not raise his voice because he had never needed to.
Which didn't change the fact that sometimes your eyes wandered in his direction when your head wasn't occupied with anything particularly important. You couldn't help it, and you didn't want to know the details of your own thoughts in those seconds.
The day was coming to an end, but you always stayed a little longer, tying up all the loose ends so that nothing would fall apart the next day. You didn't have to, your boss didn't require it — you did it because you knew what needed to be done. And you cared just a little bit about his approval. Spare the mercy, like everyone else, you sometimes wanted to be praised for a job well done. And getting it from him was like enjoying an expensive wine you couldn't afford.
When the door next to you opened with a jerk, you looked up. Silco stopped in the threshold with his familiar long coat already on, which meant he was leaving.
“Messages?” he asked a little sharply, still angry as he put on his leather gloves.
“None, sir.”
You watched as he pulled a pack of cigarettes from his pocket and closed his lips around the filter, letting the unlit one hang between them. You rarely saw him with anything... cheaper than cigars worth half your rent.
It caught you thinking that you'd gladly take a quick smoke break yourself, but you had less than half an hour left until the end of the day, and the phone could ring at any moment. His people didn't know the meaning of the word decency, busting your ass over every little thing.
“Good,” he mouthed indifferently, then walked calmly down the hallway.
Something... there was something about that walk that made it impossible to take your eyes off his back. The high collar of his coat covered half his head. It was long and dark, cut close to the body, designed for presence rather than comfort. The fabric was heavy, worn smooth at the edges, carrying the quiet weight of habitual use. When he moved, it followed with measured restraint, less a garment than an extension of his authority.
Silco could be harsh, even vicious, dangerous to those who got under his skin. But not to you. And you didn't treat it as a privilege, it didn't flatter you in any way. You simply did what you had to do, you didn't fawn over him — he would have lost what little respect he had for you if he saw that you were willing to kiss his boots in exchange for anything. You were his secretary in every sense of the word, but not his slave.
And Silco respected your work and your boundaries, never crossing any of them or putting you in an uncomfortable position. The fact that you could handle his tempers made life easier for both of you.
Likewise, he never required you to wait on pins and needles for permission to leave.
When the clock struck six, you started packing your things, ready to go home. Everything else could wait until the next day.
All of them had left the office long ago — some even before they should have. You cared too little about them to be interested in that. They would lose out on their pay for it.
You took your time leaving. What you were going back to was an empty apartment and a bowl of pasta from the day before. Warm pajamas and a cheap TV show were waiting for you before you decided that was enough for one day.
The glorious life of a single, right?
No messages on your phone, Silco wasn't back yet.
Standing over your open bag, you realized you couldn't remember seeing him leave earlier. Ever. When you arrived in the morning, he was already here. At the end of the day, he was still working. You knew his address from the private documents he had given you access to a few weeks ago. There was no way he was camping out on the couch. He looked too good every morning; definitely not like someone who had slept in an armchair.
The carpet muffled his footsteps, but even with it, you could hear them behind you. Glancing over your shoulder, you noticed that his eyes were still flaring with anger. His tousled hair made him look like a wolf ready to tear your throat out for the slightest offense. Whatever had happened during that cigarette had made his blood boil. Even his cheeks were red, and you could have sworn before the gods you don't believe in that nothing could affect this man.
You were already opening your mouth to ask, to say something — to tell him you were leaving — when he cut you off, brutally and without warning.
“My office,” he growled, not waiting for you to respond. “Now.”
You hadn’t heard that tone in a long time. The last time had been when one of his men screwed up badly enough to disappear without a trace. The sound of it hit you somewhere low in the stomach. Whatever instinct might have urged caution was drowned out by another, stronger one — habit. Obedience. You moved before you had time to think.
He barged down the corridor, nearly ripping the door off its hinges. You didn’t ask questions. You didn’t slow him down. You followed, leaving everything behind without a second thought.
Someone was definitely going to lose their head that night.
You just didn’t know whose.
That evening, Silco’s office had receded into shadow. The dark wood drank in what little light remained, edges softening, corners slipping out of reach. Only a single lamp burned on the desk, casting a narrow pool of warm light that left the rest of the room deliberately obscured. Everything beyond it felt heavier, quieter — as if the darkness itself had settled in for the night.
“Close the door.”
The order came from somewhere near the back of the room. He had already crossed to the liquor cabinet. He hadn’t even taken off his coat — too agitated, restless hands searching for answers, or at least a temporary truce, at the bottom of a bottle.
You hesitated for a fraction of a second — long enough to feel the unease coil tighter in your chest — and then did as you were told. You nudged the door shut with your hip, letting it slam into place.
You stayed where you were.
With his back to you, he raised the glass to his lips, tilting his head back completely to swallow it all at once. In the course of this year, you had never seen him so... wild. Something about it—
“Are you leaving already?” he punctuated your thoughts with a question, pouring himself another drink. What surprised you was the sight of two glasses.
“I was planning to, sir.”
Even in the face of this cold fury directed at someone whose face or name was familiar only to one person, you remained polite. You had no reason to fear him, not yet, but disrespect meant death — even if he annoyed you.
Still in his coat, still wearing gloves, he turned to you with a thick-bottomed glass half-filled with an amber liquid. He held the second one low, cupping it with his whole hand.
“Drink.”
The offer sounded like an order. Not harshly, but with a hint that if you were wise, you wouldn't object. Did you even have the option to refuse?
You weren't sure if you were more surprised or confused. He was breaking one of the unwritten rules... why? To have a drinking partner?
“Forgive me, sir,” you shook your head, still not taking your eyes off his face. “I’m not fond of this one.”
The look he gave you was like the one you give someone who has just refused a privilege and expected it to go unnoticed. His lips twisted into something that wasn't even close to a smile. He scrutinized you carefully, as if he had just seen you as a human being. That made you nearly shiver.
“It's 35-year-old whiskey,” he emphasized. “You won't get better than this in any bar.”
You felt like you were walking on thin ice. And you sensed that you should agree. Grit your teeth, deceive your tongue, and gratefully accept the fact that he had made such a gesture. The problem was that you couldn't bring yourself to swallow that particular drink.
“I am aware, sir,” you weighed your words carefully, knowing that one careless move could cost you everything. Especially when he was in that mood. “I still don't like it, though.”
Silco snorted under his breath, then shook his head and poured the drink he had offered you into his own, leaving you with an empty glass and wondering if you had just made a big mistake.
“I don't know if it's more stupid or naive,” he muttered indulgently, his lips barely moving, his eyes on you. “Do you have such refined taste or are you simply unable to appreciate good whiskey?”
You were tempted to grimace into a smile. There was no malice in his tone. You couldn't see the distaste pulling at his features, forcing everyone to bow their heads. Silco was looking for an excuse to take it out on someone. What you knew for sure was that it wouldn't be you.
“I know better than to question your taste,” you said quietly. “I simply don't drink it.”
You expected him to snort at you, growl, or simply tell you to get out. When he took a sip, his gaze drifted away for a few seconds. Staring somewhere ahead of him, seeing thoughts rather than his own office, he froze in place.
You never thought you'd ever see this — Silco was exhausted.
It showed in subtle ways. His face looked drawn, the planes sharper than before, as if rest had been postponed too many times. There was tension in the set of his jaw, a stiffness in his posture that suggested he remained upright by will alone. He did not look weak — only spent, like someone who could afford fatigue but not collapse.
That pulled one string tied around your ribs.
He shook it off quickly and you lost sight of it, but that thin thought, like a wisp of cigarette smoke, lingered around you, too intrusive for a wave of your hand to dispel.
“Pick your poison,” he sighed, stepping away from the low cabinet filled with bottles, giving you a glimpse inside.
You didn't need to come closer; in truth, you didn't want to cross the line that still lay somewhere here. You didn't know what to expect from him, and distance seemed like a rational option.
"Gin. With tonic. Half and half,“ you recited from memory — the drink you always ordered first when you were at a bar. ”On the rocks."
With each word, his eyebrows rose higher and higher. Judging by the curious, almost amused sparkle in his good eye, you knew that this conversation was entertaining him a little more than he was giving you credit for.
“You're demanding,” he remarked, leaning his hip against the desk. It didn't sound like a dig, but you couldn't call it a compliment either.
And you had no idea what to make of it. His watchful gaze clung to you like a stiff, tailor-made coat. The last thing you wanted to show was nerves — not in front of him. With a theatrical gesture, he indicated that you should make yourself whatever you wanted.
You refused the whiskey — deal with it yourself.
As you approached, the only sound was the click of your high heels and the clinking of ice against the sides of the glass. The liquor cabinet was right next to his desk so he always had it at hand. The moment he offered you a drink, he was almost in your way. Somewhere in this picture, your boss was gone, because the man who was thoughtlessly swirling the glass with his gloved hand seemed different from what you knew.
Something in the atmosphere that was growing around you was heavy, infused with words that, if spoken, would turn many things upside down. Scanning the bottles arranged in no particular order, you were looking for something to quench your thirst, soothe your throat, give you an excuse to occupy your hands. Because you were painfully aware of his presence too close behind you.
The scent of cologne mingled with the still-fresh smell of smoke and the world outside. You could feel the chill emanating from him after he had spent enough time smoking to soak it into his core.
He didn't wait for you to finish preparing your drink, but abruptly pushed himself away from the edge. As he passed by, the lapels of his coat brushed against your bare legs. Startled, you dropped the cube straight into the glass. It hit the bottom and the gin whirled, spilling a few drops onto your thumb.
Like during a storm, before lightning strikes, you felt a strange crackling in the air, hoping you would leave the room in one piece.
“Sit down,” he ordered again.
You turned on your heel, lifting your finger to your lips to lick the alcohol from it — an unconscious, graceless gesture. You realized what you’d done a second too late. His eyes flicked to your hand, sharp and immediate, before his expression hardened into something unreadable.
You sat down at once, spine stiff, the glass settled carefully on your lap.
“Next week,” he said, pacing once before stopping near the desk, “a contract will land on my desk that I want you to tear apart line by line. I don’t care how long it takes," his voice sharpened, irritation bleeding through the control. “This should’ve been handled already. Instead, I’m cleaning up after incompetence.”
He took a slow sip of whiskey, jaw tightening as he swallowed. That answered at least part of it.
You hadn’t heard a word about this contract. Then again, Silco didn’t owe you explanations. You were there to execute, not to be briefed. And yet — the delay, the way his shoulders refused to relax, the fact that he was still wearing his coat — it all sat wrong with you.
“Who’s the counterparty?” you asked carefully. “Independent or already tied to one of the houses?”
He paused, eyes lifting to you as if weighing whether the question deserved an answer.
“Independent,” he said at last. “Which makes them dangerous. They’re testing leverage. Waiting to see how much they can get away with.”
You nodded, already cataloguing the implications. Delays, hidden clauses, last-minute amendments disguised as clarifications. People who pretended to negotiate in good faith usually weren’t.
“Any red flags I should prioritize?” you asked. “Termination clauses, jurisdiction, penalties?”
“Exclusivity,” he replied immediately. “They’ll try to sneak it in sideways. Language vague enough to trap us later," he exhaled sharply through his nose. “I don’t have time for this.”
That was the problem, wasn’t it.
He never did.
“Of course,” you said, wiping the condensation from the glass where it had dampened your bare knee. “I’ll flag anything that even hints at overreach.”
He pinched the bridge of his nose, thumb and forefinger pressing hard, as if he could physically hold himself together that way.
“Yes,” he said flatly. “Do that. Because I’m done compensating for other people’s failures.”
You watched him over the rim of the glass — the tension in his posture, the way his breathing stayed shallow, controlled. He looked worn in a way that had nothing to do with age and everything to do with attrition.
You didn’t understand why that bothered you.
After all, this was the man who disappeared people. The man who barked orders and expected them obeyed without question. And yet, some small, irrational part of you noted the tremor in his hand when he set the glass down. The way the whiskey hadn’t softened him at all — just stripped away a layer of insulation.
“Anything else?” you asked quietly.
He lowered his hand not even looking at you again.
“Do you fucking job good.”
You swallowed, nodding once.
Of course.
Sitting sideways to you, you had a view of the scarred side of his face. Darker skin, a damaged eyelid — contrary to what you had heard, it didn't repel you. He snapped at you as he always did when everything else irritated him beyond measure. You realized that this dynamic put you in a bad light when you allowed him to use that tone. But the truth was, you let it slide. No matter how harsh he was, he never insulted you.
The problem was that, against your better judgment, you leaned forward a bit, setting your glass down on the desk. You couldn't swallow any more, even if it tasted a hell of a lot better than the watered-down swill they served in bars.
“When was the last time you slept, sir?”
The question slipped out before you had time to think it through. At the second when the last word fell from your lips, encouraged by the taste of gin, you were almost convinced that you were the one who was going to lose your head.
“Enlighten me,” he lowered his voice, slowly shifting his gaze to you. “What made you think you were in a position to ask me that?”
The hypocrisy tasted like you had swallowed a razor blade. You bullshitted about not crossing boundaries, keeping your distance, knowing how unpredictable Silco could be, only to ask him if he slept? Indeed, who the fuck were you to ask, what nerve, right? You might as well have written yourself a reprimand and given it to him to sign.
You didn't notice when you jumped to your feet, putting on your professional secretary mask again. It was a move you had worked on for a year, which he always appreciated, treating you like a human being. Now he stared at you with an unreadable expression, as if he had noticed an inaccuracy in the schedule. The drink standing on the edge seemed to mock you.
“Forgive me, sir,” you caught that note of politeness, but your voice was a little too shaky. “I overstepped. It won't happen again.”
Finally, he slowly raised the glass to his lips. His face expressed nothing, not even boredom, which made the hairs on the back of your neck stand up. You didn't know if he was playing cat and mouse, knowing that you were about to start pacing, or if he was actually thinking hard about the appropriate punishment. Because that was all that awaited you, right? Ice clinked softly against the sides of his glass as he set it down calmly.
“No,” he said after a moment, rejecting your immediate excuse. “You crossed a line for a reason, that much we agree on. What I want to know is why.”
Well fuck me, you cursed silently.
He wanted to know why. You wasted time staring at him desperately, searching for an answer that would satisfy your demanding boss. The problem was that the one true answer — and Silco valued honesty — should never have come out of your mouth.
But you couldn't lie either, because, damn it, under his gaze, you felt your stomach do its familiar flip, taking away all other thoughts.
“It would complicate my position if you weren't operating at full capacity,” you said finally, each word measured.
There was no more impersonal and dry way to express that the pathetic, incomprehensible way his tired face bothered you and you would prefer him to shut up for once if it meant he would rest. Oh, for fuck's sake — you cared.
You wrote yourself off the moment something cold flashed in his eyes and he got up from his chair. Now, you were beginning to suspect that building tension gave him some kind of perverse pleasure. Before he answered you, he took off his coat and hung it over the back of the chair with deliberate slowness.
“You care.”
It chilled you to the bone when he bluntly exposed your thoughts, throwing them back at you in words. You made a fool of yourself, didn’t you? He did it so dispassionately, so calmly, as if he were reciting figures from another sales report. Except that his face didn’t lie — you caught the faint crease between his brows, the unsatisfied curiosity when he found something intriguing in you. Or extremely idiotic.
It didn’t sound like a question; the statement didn’t require an answer. It didn’t — Silco most definitely did. Deluding yourself that maybe you could still blame it on alcohol, maybe fatigue, maybe attribute it to commitment — a good secretary takes care of her boss so that he doesn’t faint at work — you swallowed hard. Maybe, and only maybe, that was why you nodded slowly, the motion small but unmistakable, confessing that you cared about this rough and harsh man in a way you couldn’t explain for the life of you.
Silco didn’t look away as you admitted it, his eyes locked on yours, studying your expression as if he were searching for the smallest sign of mockery or dishonesty. There was none. After a moment, he let out a short, humorless scoff.
“You are… weird,” he said, tilting his head slightly, but there was no malice in his voice — maybe even a hint of amused disbelief.
Weird. Well, you could live with that. With a note on your back saying you had the audacity to show concern.
Silco stepped out from behind his desk, moving with a deliberate slowness that made the soft creak of the floorboards sound obscenely loud. The lamp hummed faintly behind you, glass buzzing with heat, and somewhere deeper in the building a pipe knocked once, then went still. He circled part of the office without hurry, the quiet punctuated only by the muted clink of ice in his glass.
He still hadn’t dismissed you.
You probably should have fled when your gaze dropped — just for a second — to his hand, still hidden beneath the glove, fingers gliding along the edge of the desk as he passed. The scrape of leather against wood made your stomach tighten. Your tongue stuck to the roof of your mouth. You swallowed hard, pulse thudding in your ears, forcing your thoughts down while a reckless urge flared — not to touch him, but to grab yourself by the collar and drag yourself out of the room before you said something unforgivable.
“That’s… odd,” he murmured at last, stopping. The word landed softly, almost conversationally. His eyes never left your face. “Most people wouldn’t care about a cold bastard like me."
He tilted his head a fraction, studying you like a problem he hadn’t decided whether to solve or discard.
"Sir, that's not—"
“And yet" he cut you off like a knife under silk, "you’re standing here asking absurd questions," the pause that followed was measured, deliberate — long enough for the hum of the lamp to crawl under your skin. “Why?”
Your breath hitched. Heat crept up your spine, sharp and unmistakable. That was it. That was the moment you’d gone too far. You felt it in your knees, in the way your hands trembled around the glass. As long as you didn’t move, maybe you could still pretend you hadn’t just placed your head neatly on the block.
Silco watched the hesitation with open interest.
“What?” he said mildly. “Suddenly shy?”
Heat stained your neck red. You forgot your tongue, something about the way he played with words, teasing you from every angle, made you feel out of place.
Your gaze fell on the glass with the drink, you needed it like hell. A moment too soon, because his gaze followed yours.
“Or… do you need a bit of courage first, hm?”
The mockery was quiet, precise — surgical. It made your jaw tightened.
With an imperious gesture, he raised the glass in front of your face; his fingers delicately encircled the vessel, making the gin appear black against the background of his glove. You didn't feel you could — you didn't want to — refuse.
As he reached for the drink, his fingers brushed yours. You didn't dare guess whether the gesture was intentional. It was enough that your stomach did that familiar flip.
The sound of ice shifting as you finally lifted the glass felt deafening. You drank too quickly, gin burning a raw line down your throat, eyes stinging as you forced it down. The taste didn’t wash away the shame. If anything, it sharpened it. You lowered the glass with care, fingers damp, breath unsteady.
He didn’t interrupt you. He didn’t rush you. He knew you’d speak.
“I don’t,” you said at last, voice steadier than you felt, “make a habit of questioning your personal affairs, sir,” you paused, choosing every word like it might be used against you later. “But my work becomes… complicated when you push yourself past reason.”
There was this contained and professional answers. Bloodless even.
You didn’t look at him when you finished. Your heart was hammering hard enough to make your vision blur at the edges. This conversation should never have happened. You were already bracing for the fallout — dismissal, punishment, something worse.
Silco leaned back against the desk instead, the wood giving a low creak under his weight. He rested one boot against the leg of the chair you’d been sitting in moments earlier, claiming the space without touching you. From this close, you could hear his breathing — slow, controlled — and the faint rustle of his coat as he shifted.
Predatory, your mind supplied uselessly.
The room felt warmer. Or maybe that was just you. You set the glass down on the low table with more care than necessary, avoiding his gaze, blaming the treacherous thoughts skittering through your head on the gin.
Silence stretched, thick enough to choke on.
“Come here.”
The order was quiet.
And somehow, worse for it.
You froze when you heard the command. Lifting your head to meet his eyes, you almost choked on your own breath. Something was very wrong. With your head, that you were still sticking out like a peg.
“Sir, I don't think—”
“Don't make me repeat myself,” he cut you off, not giving a fuck what you were about to say.
For a fleeting, cowardly second, you considered leaving — slipping out now, letting the consequences wait until morning. You were both drinking, the air was thick with tension, and whatever line this was, it had already been crossed.
But you knew better.
You didn’t want to imagine what refusing him now would look like.
You took a cautious step toward him, careful with your footing, with your breathing. Not because he wouldn’t accept a refusal — that wasn’t the point. You stepped forward because you didn’t dare test what would happen if you didn’t. His expression tightened as he watched you move. He straightened, slowly, deliberately, towering just a little more as his jaw set. You saw his teeth clench, heard the faint click of his tongue as he weighed his words.
“Closer.”
Heat slicked your skin. A bead of sweat traced a slow line down your spine, then lower. Every sensible instinct screamed at you to turn around, to leave while you still could, before this tangled itself into something irreversible. And yet, faced with the cold focus in his mismatched eyes — with the faint scent of rain still clinging to his coat — you felt yourself lean in, as if drawn by something you didn’t trust yourself to name.
You took another step.
You barely recognized the person doing it. Something in you refused to back down when he used that tone — not defiance, not courage, but a reflex honed by long familiarity. You moved because stopping felt more dangerous than going on.
Silco’s gaze never left you as the distance closed. Something in him loosened, just a fraction — a barely perceptible release — as if he were both relieved and irritated that you’d done exactly what he told you to do.
He didn't move an inch until you were within the reach of his arm, then his hand shot out and grabbed the collar of your shirt.
“I said closer,” he growled.
His face was dangerously close to yours. You let out a slight hiss, not expecting him to be so fierce. His scent invaded your nostrils.
Silco let out a low, impatient grunt as he slowly but firmly pulled you closer, eyes never leaving your face. When you were within inches of him, he finally stopped. He was so close now, the faint scent of cigarettes mixed with his cologne surrounded you. His grip on your collar tightened imperceptibly.
“Eyes on me.”
At that moment, you understood what that stomach flip was. Where the thoughts you couldn't grasp were escaping to. Why the smell of rain from his coat and that lining... something, the tone mixed in your head as if you had drunk more than one drink.
You were pushing yourself into this like a moth to a flame. He tempted you more than was reasonable. You should have pushed him away and pretended you didn't want him. End it, cut it off here and now. Lured by the situation, and just a drop of alcohol you felt the ground slipping away beneath your feet.
Against all the wisdom in the world, you did exactly what he told you to do, losing what little sense you had left in the process. Oh, really, how could you have been so stupid? The fabric of the glove rubbed against your throat, catching every breath, every swallow.
Silco's expression shifted slightly — something between frustration and amusement flickering across his face. His grip on your collar loosened just a fraction, though he didn't let go.
“And here I thought you might step back.”
Then, with deliberate slowness almost like he was savoring the moment, his other hand came up to cup the back of your neck — holding you in place.
You let out a sound that could easily be mistaken for a gasp.
Silco's eyes flickered at the sound you made, but he didn't pull away — fingers gently massaging the side of your neck. For a moment, there was an unreadable look in his eye as he studied your expression carefully, like he was waiting for something to happen.
“Relax,” he said quietly, his voice holding some of its usual sharpness.
His thumb brushed over your pulse point, feeling the fast rhythm against his gloved fingertips.
“We shouldn't—”
“Should we?” he laughed softly, low, his breath brushing your lips, the mockery obvious. “You came willingly, remember?”
You had to swallow to moisten your throat, playing for time. For a split second, you looked down at his lips, feeling the lie burning your tongue. You fucking hypocrite.
“I didn't think I had a choice, sir.”
Liar, you didn't give it to yourself because, contrary to all possible rules of this world, you were attracted to him.
Something in your words made him clench his teeth. The amusement, the sluggishness, disappeared from his eyes. His lips twitched almost like he was fighting back a grimace as your pulse hammered under his fingers. Then Silco leaned in just slightly, close enough that you could feel the warmth of him against you.
“Tell me to stop,” he challenged you, “Go on.”
He was giving you a way out on a silver platter. Push him away, maybe file a harassment complaint. HR would have a field day. Except... you didn't want to. It was more than indecent. Inappropriate in the workplace. Damn it, you had no idea how badly you wanted him to go further before he grabbed your collar.
“Sir, I—”
Silco's eyes darkened as you whispered, the sound of his title on your lips doing something dangerous to his head. His hand shifted, the fingers on the back of your neck gently guiding you even closer. He was so unbelievably close, you could feel the warmth of his breath fanning across your skin. You licked your lips, waiting for him to lean in and take yours for himself.
“Say it. Push me away.”
For the first time, you deliberately ignored his instruction. A trembling breath played on your lips. In a world where Silco controlled everything, this decision was yours.
So, daring to do something you didn't expect of yourself, you raised your hands. Placed them on his chest. God, his shirt was even softer than it looked. You bit your lip almost to the point of bleeding, feeling the warmth of his body beneath the fabric. Everything coursed south, pooling with heat between your legs until you could feel your own pulse. Closing your fingers around the red fabric, you knew you craved him.
“Thought so,” he muttered wryly.
One gloved hand moved under your chin, tilting your head back slightly, forcing your eyes to meet his. His were dark, pupils dilated.
“Mmh—”
You whimpered, catching his gaze. He was your boss, for the hell of it. You shouldn’t have dirty thoughts about him, wanting to feel those lips on yours, to see if he tasted more like whiskey or smoke. Worse, picture if his desk could hold your weight if he suddenly said “fuck it” and shoved you onto it, yanking your skirt up.
Silco's eyes darkened further as he heard the sound escape your lips. His gaze flicked to your now exposed neck — and then he slowly dragged his gloved thumb along the line of your throat.
“Quiet” he warned gruffly, words a low rumble on the edge of a hiss.
You didn't have the courage to resist. The leather had warmed from your body, making it feel like his own hand. The fact that he hadn't touched you directly even once made you ready to beg. You bit your tongue to stifle a moan, even though you wanted to offer it to him.
His hand on your collar moved again, this time sliding under the fabric, and his fingers left a trail of goosebumps across the skin there. Silco curled his into something dangerously close to a satisfied grin as he watched you unravel under his touch. Your breath hitched, fingers tightened against his shirt — and it sent a thrill through him. You felt that.
“Pathetic,” he muttered dryly, but there was no real bite in it. Just amusement.
His gloved hand slid up further under your clothes, tracing idle patterns over sensitive skin with deliberate slowness — watching for every tiny reaction you gave him like some kind of experiment gone right.
Silco smirked as he watched your expression, taking in every little change that crossed it.
“You're so... responsive.”
You looked at him from under heavy eyelids, feeling that you deserved a worse description for giving in to him so quickly. His tone, tinged with mockery, only turned you on more. He brought his other hand up, fingers tangling in the hair at the back of your neck, holding your head back and exposing more of your throat.
Whether he knew it or not, this was your weak spot. You barely managed to keep your voice from turning your breath into a weak moan.
“Hahh—”
You ached for him.
“Use your words,” his voice could cut glass as he pulled your hair harder, forcing obedience.
“I need—ah!”
He pushed you without a low sound rumbling in back of his throat, shoving you against the wall next to you. You caught your foot on a cabinet, something fell to the floor. The glass shattered, cutting the air into pieces. Neither of you cared.
All you could hear was the sound of your own blood rushing in your ears. That broken crack was not enough to pull you out of your frenzy when he pushed your legs apart with his knee, sliding them between yours. He wasn't pressing his leg against your core yet, but your skirt had risen a little too high on your thighs, revealing more than you should have.
Silco's smirk widened. He glanced down. Suddenly, his hand was on your leg. A soft glove brushing too gently — for him — the outer part of your exposed thigh. Goosebumps sprinkled your skin, causing you to arch your back. You almost lost it when you felt how hard he was in response to these ministrations. He was leaning against your hip, hot, throbbing every time you allowed yourself another little gasp or wiggle.
He moved in closer, so close that your bodies were touching, nearly crushing you against the wall. You could feel his heartbeat against your chest. His lips, a little rough, brushed yours, taking your breath away. When he clasped his hand on your knee, you fantasized about him pulling your leg higher, wrapping it around his hip.
“Christ,” he whispered in a tone too close to a moan, the word coming out hoarse, just a ghost of a kiss. “You're like some kind of—”
He suddenly trailed off, biting back the word that threatened to spill past his lips. All because in response to his voice, your hips jerked forward, rubbing your almost too wet cunt against his thigh.
“Oh gods, sir...” you moaned, abandoning all decency.
Silco's entire body tensed at your plea, his grip on you tightening almost reflexively. For a moment, he just stared down at you and his expression was unreadable. Then he exhaled sharply through his nose and abruptly released you. He took two steps back like the space between the two of you was suddenly unbearable to him.
“You...” he cut himself off with another frustrated noise, “Fuck.”
You didn't have time to catch your breath. To hitch your skirt lower or straighten your collar before he snatched his coat from the chair with a fierce look on his face. He no longer paid any attention to you — eager and aroused — left with your own desire throbbing between your legs.
Instead, he jerked away, slamming the door as he stormed out of his office