Chapter 2

2

Knox

She leaves, and I scowl after her. Did she have the last word? A first. That has never happened before with any of my employees. Never. Not even with my platoon in the Marines. Doesn't she realize I can fire her?

I draw in a sharp breath, and the lingering scent of coffee reaches me. I turn toward my desk and, like a homing pigeon, move toward it. I snatch the cup and down it. It leaves a trail of warmth in its wake, dispelling some of the chill creeping over my skin since she left. It feels good that she stood up to me. It's the first spark of interest I've felt toward any woman in a long time.

Unlike those before her, who were unable to look me in the face without flinching, she didn't hesitate to meet my gaze. I knit my brows. I ensured I stepped into the light so she could see my scarred features, but she didn't react. In fact, she held her ground. I rub my chin. I need an efficient assistant; it's the only way to increase my productivity. But so far, no one has been able to keep up with me, so why should she be any different?

So what, if she has more gumption than the rest of my employees? So what, if she isn't put off by my disfigured visage, or that there's a thread of awareness between us...? It doesn't mean anything.

She's a paid minion, and nothing more. She won't be able to deal with my demands and, just like everyone else, she'll resign before daylight fades outside.

I push aside thoughts of her and, grabbing my tablet, join my video conference call.

After a few minutes, I've had it with this spineless, indecisive group. I interrupt, "Gather the staff; you know the drill. Sell off the loss-making units. Then auction the profitable divisions." My decree is greeted by silence.

Then Ravi, the most senior person on my team, clears his throat. "There's a chance to turn this company around. Why not build it up, then sell it off and make more money, without people losing their jobs?"

"That's going to take time—" He begins to speak, but I interrupt him, "Time I don't have." He and the others look around uncomfortably. Then I add, "Get it done." I disconnect the call and toss the device onto the desk.

I'm sure they think I don't have any compassion. What they don't realize is that the company we're taking over is in the business of publishing newspapers, which is in sharp decline. Sure, we could try to build it back up, but the money we'd pump in would end up hurting the parent company, without any visible results. This would, in turn, affect the jobs of everyone on the call.

The difficult decision I'm making might hurt in the short term, but eventually, it will ensure the survival of this company and the roles that go with it. As for the jobs that will be lost in the takeover? That's why gathering the employees is the first step. Where possible, I'll find these employees opportunities in other group companies. I'll offer them the opportunity to retrain and find roles within our digital media divisions.

I also plan to offer a voluntary retirement scheme to ensure those who want an early retirement can be paid enough to afford to do so. The rest will receive a healthy pay-off that will buy them time to look for a new job.

These are details I could have gone into with my team, but I don't have the patience to do so. I prefer action to spending the next half hour walking my team through my plan. I outline my thoughts in an email to my Finance Director and instruct him to share the details with them, instead .

My time is money, and this is the best use of it. I can't baby my team and waste my time explaining my thoughts. They're going to have to catch up with me. I'm a strategist. I have the ability to look into the future and think ten steps ahead. I can see the game plan before anyone else, and I have the confidence to execute it with stealth, alacrity, and no emotion. I keep my eye on the target and get things done. It's why Arthur put me in charge of the media division.

He knew I'd see through the clutter and turn this company around. If that means I come across as an authoritarian and a cold-hearted operator, that's too bad. I roll my shoulders to dispel the knots, not that it helps.

I haven't slept in more than a week, thanks to the insomnia that's plagued me since I left the Marines. And when I do close my eyes, I'm plagued by the faces of those who didn't make it back alive. Unlike me.

Survivor's guilt is real. And despite my logical mind telling me I'm not responsible for the deaths of my brothers in arms, a part of me will always feel I don't deserve to be back among the civilians when they're not. It's a part of me I don't have control over, and I hate that. Given the choice, I never would have gone on that last mission either. But I wasn't in charge. And when I lost so many team-members on that tour, I knew my time in the Marines was up. No way, was I going to put myself in a situation again where I didn't have a say in my future. I crack my neck.

Control. That's what I value more than anything else. It's about controlling my situation. About controlling the decisions impacting my life. I'm done with allowing anyone else to direct my destiny. Unfortunately, this doesn't extend to my ability to rest at night. Turns out, the one thing I can't control is sleep.

The only place I've managed to feel safe enough to get some shuteye is at the family home in Cumbria. It's isolated enough that I can let myself relax there. The place has been in our family for generations. It's where I retreated to recover from my injuries. It's the place where I feel most at home.

When the computer screen begins to fade in front of my eyes, I blink and glance away.

My surroundings take on an added shine—a sure sign that I'm running on empty. Everything seems both blurred and bright at the same time, another sign that I really need to get some sleep. A flash of pain ignites behind my eyes. The heaviness in my head expands to meet the flickering pinpricks that pinch at the scars on my cheek. The headache is real, but the feeling of the skin being torn on my face is psychosomatic.

The ravages of PTSD are something very few of us in the service escape from. I open the drawer under my desk, snatch my painkillers, and swallow them dry. It'll take a few minutes for the pain to recede. I slide into the chair behind my desk and, by the time the door to my office opens, I can breathe without feeling like I'm suffocating.

My new assistant stomps in, then comes to a stop. Her gaze is fixed on me. Her throat moves as she swallows. She stares like she's seeing my face for the first time—which she is, for despite the fact she took in my features earlier, she's seeing them in closer proximity now, and it's a full-frontal view, with nothing to soften my fa?ade. The rain has cleared enough for watery sunlight to slant thought the windows. One of the rays falls across my features. I don't blink. It had to happen at some point; best to get it out of the way now.

This is when she turns and runs screaming, or perhaps, faints—yep, that happened with one of my past assistants, too. He quit on the spot. Not that I blame him. My face is ravaged enough for mothers to use it as a stand-in for the boogie monster who'll carry children off if they don't fall asleep quickly enough.

She swallows, the sound audible in the room. Then she takes in my features again. Her cheeks flush further. But there's no other reaction on her face. Certainly, there's no fear or loathing. If anything, her breathing seems to roughen. Interesting.

Women used to find me attractive, but since I was hurt in action, they take one look at my face and are repelled. Most can't look me in the eye, and if they do, it's with sympathy. Despite the fact that their gaze is often transfixed by my wounded face, not one of them has the courage to ask me about it. They're unable to look past the visible scars to the ones I carry inside. It's as if my entire existence is defined by my facial disfigurement.

The few who decide they want to sleep with me are enticed by my family name and fortune, taking it as enough compensation to overlook my defacement—as one of them said in complete seriousness. None wanted to date me or be seen with me in polite company. I wince at the memory. It's as if having an ugly face gives them permission to be impolite, because how can someone so revolting have any emotions to speak of? Others want to sleep with me so they can boast that they've been with 'The Beast.' It's a nickname I learned about by mistake.

It made me angry, at first. Then, I realized it was fitting and decided I'd do my best to live up to it. I'd embody the role of the wrathful, nasty boss with my employees, so no one would dare to approach me. Most of them—including my former assistants—averted their gaze while speaking to me, or preferred to email me instead, so they wouldn't have to see my face. This way, I didn't have to put up with their commiseration or their curiosity.

This woman, though, seems not to be repelled by my blemished features. If anything, she seems to be genuinely drawn to me. A first. And likely, an illusion. She's probably pretending to be attracted to me so she can get something from me, as well. Yes, I'm sure that's what it is.

I glower at her, but her facial expression remains unchanged. She continues inside and slaps an envelope on the desk. "This one is marked personal and confidential."

"Open it." I wave a hand in the direction of the cover.

"Are you sure?"

"I won't repeat myself," I snap.

She swallows, then reaches over and grabs the letter opener on my desk. The neckline of her blouse dips, and I get a flash of her ample cleavage. Jesus. H. Christ, she's gorgeous. She's perfectly curved, perfectly plus sized in a way that has me riveted. The dip of her waist, the flare of her lush hips, and the turn of her shapely ankles have my pants growing uncomfortably tight.

She straightens and slits open the flap of the envelope. She pulls out what appears to be an ivory-colored card.

"Read it out loud," I order.

"The honorable Nelson Eddard, Earl of Duncastle, and Judith, Countess of Duncastle, are pleased to invite you to the wedding reception of their daughter Rosemary with Dean Thornton, the Fifth Duke of Thornton, on Tuesday the?—"

"Bin it on your way out." I pretend to yawn, hoping she'll take the hint and leave because I can't take my gaze off her beautiful features. And that is unexpected. "And don't bother me with such trifles in the future. "

"It's the society event of the year and tipped to be the next best thing to a royal reception."

"Boring." I turn back to my computer.

"Surely, it would be good for your profile to be seen there. It could result in positive publicity, which could only help with the image of the Davenports. Which, in turn, might help you to retain talent."

I frown. "Are you implying we're not doing a good enough job of keeping our employees happy?"

When she doesn't reply, I raise my gaze to hers. She flinches but doesn't look away. "Your last employee satisfaction survey speaks for itself." She pulls out her phone from the pocket of her skirt. My gaze is drawn to the flare of her hips, the way the hem ends just above her knees, the stocking-clad, gorgeous calves which end in heels—which are patently ill-fitting.

Her fingers fly over the screen, then she slides the phone across the desk in my direction.

I take in the details on the screen. Overall employee satisfaction within the Davenport Group's media division is below thirty percent.

"And you think something as cosmetic as being seen at a society reception will fix this?" I sneer.

"Not alone. But positive PR, accompanied by measures like subsidized food in the employee canteen, arrangements for childcare within the office complex, and flexible working hours, as well as matching donations to their favorite charities, will help raise the scores."

One of my brothers implemented similar measures in one of the other group companies. They exceeded their quarterly goals, too. But that doesn't necessarily mean there's a connection between the two.

"Such actions will also give rise to employees moonlighting during office hours, not to mention slacking off," I counter.

"Not if they're held to tight deliverables."

"Hmm." She has a point. With clear parameters, there's no reason these measures can't be implemented with little extra effort. I haven't paid that much attention to the company's internal HR policies, nor to public perception, but clearly, that needs to change.

"Write it up and email it to me."

She nods .

Her instant agreement to my directives is a turn on. Her quick thinking when it comes to equating an invitation to a society event with the possibility of improving the image of my company, combined with her knowledge of the facts needed to back up her suggestion, is not only impressive, but also bloody attractive. And when she continues to stand there with her eyelids lowered, a whisper of emotion brushes up against my mind, eliciting one word: submissive. Is she a natural submissive? Do I care if she is?

She's my employee; doesn't that make her off-limits? On the other hand, she's the first person in this office I've exchanged more than a few words with—outside of Mary—and it's stimulating.

Much as I relish being reclusive, I also enjoy being able to have a conversation with someone who doesn't bore me. And who's easy on the eyes. I slide her phone across the desk and over to her.

She picks it up. "And the invitation?"

"Let them know I'll be there."

"Very good, Sir."

Oh no, she didn't. That 'Sir' at the end of the sentence has blood flowing to my groin. Definitely submissive.

Her features light up with a smile. Her brown eyes glow. Her sweet lips part to reveal white teeth and, suddenly, it feels hot in here.

She turns to leave, and I call out, "Oh, and Kelly?"

She pauses and scowls at me over her shoulder. "My name's June."

I'm so taken in with the pout she's wearing on her pink, rosebud mouth. A mouth that's soft and seductive and hints at a lushness in her, a softness, I hunger to explore.

"Kelly." I say firmly and am rewarded with the deepening of her frown.

Her eyes flash fire, and pinpricks of interest stab at my chest. There are hidden depths to her that should keep me entertained for a while. One reason to hope she outlasts the others. Then, she pushes up the spectacles she's wearing on her pert nose, and I realize the other reason to keep her around is that her sexy-librarian look does it for me.

Not that it makes a whit of difference. Soon, she'll realize I'm not only disgusting to look at, but also disgusting on the inside, and she'll want to resign. But I'll stay a step ahead. I'm going to test her. I'll give her the most impossible tasks to complete. That way, she'll understand that I've earned every bit of my reputation as The Beast. That way, I'll push her limits until she quits. It's inevitable she leaves, but this way, I'll be in control of the timelines. Then she'll be gone, and I can go back to working by myself. I'll no longer be in suspense about when she's going to leave me. It's what prompts me to drawl, "I'll be taking a plus one to the reception."

"Oh?" Her gaze widens. "Whose name should I put down for that?"

"Yours."