15. Liam

Chapter fifteen

Liam

The office is a battlefield, and I'm waging a silent war with my own damn desires.

Ever since we returned from our trip to Atlanta, I can barely walk through the office without thinking of her—of the way she gasped and screamed for me, of her tight pussy, of her perfect tits. Shiloh's desk is an island just outside my glass fortress, her presence both a beacon and a warning.

I haven't looked at her directly since the night that shouldn't have happened, but I feel her there, like heat from a flame I'm trying not to touch.

"Shiloh, get me the Henderson file," I bark over the speakerphone without leaving my chair, keeping my eyes glued to the computer screen.

Every time I speak to her, it's clipped and harsh; I can't afford to be soft, not after what we did, not when every glimpse of her threatens to unravel me.

I hear the shuffle of her feet, the whisper of paper as she hands over the requested file. There's no thankfulness in my grunt, no acknowledgment of her as anything more than the efficient assistant she's supposed to be. She retreats back to her post, and I force myself to focus on the numbers dancing across my monitor.

Minutes morph into hours, and the tick of the clock syncs with the thud of my heartbeat. It's relentless, this gnawing hunger, a desire to taste her again, to lose myself in the soft curves that I memorized in a single night. I grit my teeth and lean into the pain like a penance.

Then comes the knock.

Soft and hesitant.

"Come in," I call out, steeling myself against whatever fresh hell this might unleash.

The door opens, and I find Shiloh on the other side, a shadow of her usual self. Her eyes don't meet mine, fixed on some point beyond my shoulder. My hands grip the edge of the desk hard enough that I feel the wood bite into my skin. God, I want to look away, but I can't. Not now.

"What do you want?" I manage to grind out, voice rough with restraint.

The question hangs in the air between us, heavy with things unsaid, with a night that changed everything and nothing at all.

It’s been two weeks, and my need for her hasn’t lessened even a little bit.

She just stands there, not moving, not speaking. Her eyes are red, cheeks blotchy from tears that have clearly left their trails. My chest tightens; it's a sucker punch to the part of me I keep locked down.

“I… I can go,” she finally says, her voice barely a whisper.

I shake my head and grit my teeth.

"Sit," I say. It's not a request. Shiloh hesitates, her warm brown eyes still fixed on some distant point before she moves slowly to the chair in front of my desk.

"What do you need?" I ask, trying to sound indifferent but unable to hide the raw edge of my words. I'm not good at this, at caring, but damn it if I don't find myself doing just that.

"Am I going to be fired?" Her voice is direct, cutting through the bullshit, hitting me square in the gut.

The question hangs there, suspended in the stagnant air of my office. The silence stretches, and I know what I should do, what any cutthroat billionaire boss would do—squash the concern, maintain the distance.

But I can't. Not with her looking like her world's about to crumble.

"Shiloh..." The name feels different on my tongue, heavy with things I won't allow myself to feel. "No, you're not being fired."

"Are you sure?" Her voice breaks, and it sounds like honesty, like fear.

"Damn sure." I lean back, my chair creaking under the shift of weight, but my eyes never leave hers. “Why the hell would I fire you? You’ve done nothing wrong.”

"I don’t know. I just… you’ve been grumpy, and I got scared because I need this job," she blurts out, the words tumbling over each other in a rush. Her hands are clasped together tightly in her lap, knuckles white. "I have to pay off my student loans, and I'm trying to save for a down payment on my own place."

"Your own place?" I probe, though it's none of my damn business.

"Yeah, I've been planning to move out of Chris's apartment," she says. “I just needed to—”

"Wait, you're still living with Chris?" My voice is sharper than I intend, the edge of concern cutting through the professional facade I've been clinging to.

Shiloh nods, her eyes dropping to the floor.

"Shit." The word escapes before I can stop it. I'm immediately appalled that she has to continue sharing a roof with her ex, my shithead brother—my stomach twists at the thought. "How long has this been going on?"

"Since the breakup," she says softly, looking like she expects me to reprimand her for her personal life choices.

"Shiloh, that's not right." The words are out before I can think them through, and I know it's too late to take them back. But I don't want to. Some primal part of me roars to life, protective, furious on her behalf.

"Look, Liam, you don't have to worry about my personal issues. I just..." She trails off, biting her lip.

But I do worry. And as much as I hate to admit it, I can't stand the thought of her in that situation. It's unacceptable. Something coils tight in my chest, an instinctive need to fix this for her.

But how?

What am I supposed to do now, knowing this?

Without another word, I yank a desk drawer open and pull out a checkbook. The sound of my heartbeat is thunderous in my ears, a relentless drumming that seems to drown out everything but the matter at hand.

Shiloh's eyes widen as she watches me scribble on the check, her face a mixture of confusion and disbelief. She's gone even paler than before, hands clasped in front of her like she's bracing for something unexpected, for some blow or harsh word. But no harsh word comes.

"Here." My voice is rougher than I want it to be as I tear the check from the booklet and pass it over to her.

Her fingers tremble as she reaches out, but then she hesitates, pulling back slightly. "What… what is this, Liam?" she asks, her voice barely above a whisper.

"Ten thousand should be more than enough to rent a nice apartment," I say curtly, avoiding her gaze now because if I look at her, I might just tell her everything. "To get a place today, and to hire movers." The words are practical, but they come out strained like they're being forced through a barrier inside me.

Shiloh's eyes search mine, looking for the catch, the joke, or maybe just the cruelty she's come to expect from me. But there's none of that in my face—only the harsh lines of concern that I can't seem to smooth away no matter how hard I try.

She extends her hand again, reluctantly taking the check, and then promptly tries to give it back. "Liam, I can't—"

"Keep it." My hand moves over hers, closing her fingers around the piece of paper that could change everything. It's an impulsive act, but one that I can't take back now—and it sends my pulse skittering, my skin tingling even from the slightest touch. "I want you out from under that asshole’s roof."

There's a moment when she just stares at the check in her hand, and then up at me. Her eyes are filled with a thousand questions, but she seems to realize that now isn't the time for them.

"Thank you," she murmurs, and the depth of sincerity in her voice makes my chest tighten all over again.

"Get a nice place, Shiloh," I add gruffly. "Somewhere safe. And don't even think about paying me back."

She nods, clutching the check like it's a lifeline, and I know that I've done the right thing, even if it doesn't feel entirely right within the rigid confines of my own rules.

But then, since when have I ever been good at following rules?

She nods again, her voice barely above a whisper as she thanks me one final time before turning on her heels. The click of her shoes against the floor fades with each step until the door shuts behind her, leaving me alone in my office—a space that suddenly feels too big and too silent.

A moment later, another knock jars me from my thoughts. I don’t even have time to call out before the door opens, and Jackie is standing there, leaning against the frame with an eyebrow quirked in a way that tells me she's seen more than I wish she had.

"Jackie," I start, my attempt at a reprimand falling flat when I can't keep the annoyance from bleeding into my tone. "Can I help you?"

Her eyes flicker with something akin to mischief—or maybe it’s just the usual nosiness that she disguises as concern. "Is something going on between you and Shiloh?"

The question hits like a bucket of ice water. I straighten up, my hands pressing flat against the desk, willing myself to maintain control. My voice comes out steady, betraying none of the chaos that’s threatening to unravel inside me.

"Absolutely not; that would be entirely inappropriate," I say, each word clipped, a warning for her to drop it. But Jackie just shrugs, her casual dismissal of my tone only fueling the irritation simmering beneath my skin.

"Maybe," she muses aloud, unfazed by my glare, "but I think Shiloh might be good for you."

It's the last thing I want to hear. My jaw clenches involuntarily as I feel the precarious balance of my professional and personal life tipping over the edge. The walls I've painstakingly erected to keep my desires in check are cracking, and Jackie's words are a sledgehammer.

"Get out," I tell her, my voice low, barely controlled. Jackie holds my gaze for a moment longer as if trying to decipher the storm behind my eyes.

Then, with a nonchalant roll of her shoulders, she turns and saunters out, closing the door behind her. I'm left alone again, breathing heavily, fully aware that this is already out of control.

I need to fire Shiloh if I want to resist her… but I can’t do either of those things.

And the closer I get to her, the closer we get to disaster.