Dr. Book,

I am extremely disappointed in the manner you have comported yourself since returning to my facilities. 

I am glad to know you have found an alternative residence, but your staff does not seem to have adequate records on where they are located. You might wish to adhere to Botwin’s administrative parameters moving forward lest we undergo an audit of our internal processes. 

I recommend you to be extravagant and not stingy with your apology declarations, though I will also attempt to treat you fairly in your endeavors to once again find yourself in my good graces.

Sincerely,

Soraya Santiago

She struck the send key harder than necessary. The email, snippy and passive aggressive, sent without an issue, but it did not tell her where her property was. Or anything about his sleeping or work schedule. Each time she sought him out, he’d either just left for a meal, or the location of his new residence must have been mistyped—or they stared blankly at her like Malcolm Book didn’t exist. She’d spoken to Jeremy seven times, and each day he claimed it was his “first day.” He no longer had a job.

The calendar reminder pinged a too happy sound. Her shoulder ached, and the tenderness of her breasts and sides radiated along her mid-back when she moved. The fingerprint bruises left behind from two nights prior had not fully faded; she’d refused the healing potion for several days. The roil of her stomach and the extended nausea were not worth it for this small amount of pain. Soraya felt herself healthy enough to endure a handful of marks on her tits and ass. 

She grimaced when sliding the blazer on, and glanced at the meticulous work of her makeup before heading down the hall to yet another presentation that could be an email. The initiative to limit pointless meetings seemed to be an utter failure.

She’d already stamped her approval on the budget increase, but Joaquin went through each slide while leering in her direction. Even in the dimmed light, she could see the sallowness of his complexion; the dark circles beneath his eyes seemed more prominent than the day before. She noted he was also far more irritable, but she supposed his alleged autoimmune disease might have something to do with his poor mood and nonexistent appetite. 

It would have been rude to smile at his distress, but the temptation never ended. 

The budget meeting ended with sage nods and mutters about potential pay cuts, all to finance new intern positions in the Spring. She waited for Joaquin to come to her, clumsy in his coordination but still on his feet. He kissed her without caring who witnessed it, sloppy in his approach and smelling of the breakfast he’d tasted on its way back up from his unfortunate illness. She pressed gentle hands on his chest and straightened his shirt. 

“You should go rest, mi amor. Have the doctors not been able to give you an answer?” she asked. 

Joaquin scoffed. 

“Inútil. All of them are useless. I might as well go offer my veins to the nearest vampire.”

She paraded her fingertips down his cheek in a tender stroke, then again recommended he rest for the afternoon. He was showing obvious signs of heavy metal toxicity, but she’d sent him to doctors who knew how to diagnose her cousin per her instructions. Dr. Ignacio Raine was a podiatrist by diploma and a construction worker by trade.

Joaquin relented, a second kiss claiming her lips before he finally wandered out into the hallway. Probably in search of a sofa to sprawl across and leave drool on the cushions. It hadn’t taken long to learn the man snored and drooled while asleep, and she’d invested in high-end earbuds to drown out his presence in the penthouse. It could not block the man out during the day, a travesty she could not resolve. 

The conference room stood empty and quiet. Soraya stared at the screen where he’d presented his budget proposal. In another life, could they have worked together? In another universe, was Joaquin Martinez-Ruiz not such a monster? Could they have risen through the ranks of the cartel, hand in hand with mutual goals? Too many questions riddled her mind as she sat down again. She didn’t realize her shirt had fallen low enough to show the spreading black-and-blue reaching toward her collarbone as she lost herself in ‘what-ifs.’

Soraya startled when the door opened. She lifted to her feet too quickly, sending the chair rolling backwards until it bumped against the wall. No matter how many times she’d seen Malcolm’s silhouette when she visited him in his cell, his stature always took her by surprise. Just like that first day in the office. His chiseled jaw and broad shoulders, how he carried himself with authority intertwined with panty-wetting charisma. He coerced her belly to flutter with anxiety that she suspected might be infatuation, but insisted it was anxiety. 

Soraya fully expected a standoff, but Malcolm’s attention remained on the tablet. She stood still, much like a deer caught in the headlights of an oncoming car. No words came to mind, not even when he glanced up and started a smooth 180, too graceful for a man attempting to flee the scene. In a way, she could not blame him. They weren’t exactly Lucy and Ricky Ricardo. Malcolm’s emotions proved too complicated for her to follow their erratic jump. He seemed so tired, determination turning his frown severe and adding discerning lines around his mouth. He stilled, eyes riveted on the spreading black and blue along her collarbone.

She wanted to step back, but couldn’t. Her gaze lowered to see what caught his attention. Oh…

She should have stepped back.

Malcolm’s attack came too quickly for her to react, his forceful grip wrapped in her hair. His fingers tightened until the roots burned, and Soraya arched, lifting to her tip-toes in shoes not meant for such a maneuver. The presence of his nose dragging along the elegant curve of her throat sent a series of shivers down her spine. The way she shoved at his chest belied the intimate appearance of their position. 

“Malcolm, let go,” she spat.

The tone of her demand did not match the forward roll of her hips, or how her breasts pressed harder in Soraya’s futile efforts to push him away. 

“Who is he?” The words were barely more than a bestial snarl. The harshness in Malcolm’s voice did not feel dangerous, but she knew the beast lurked. It waited. It wanted.

“It’s not your business,” she breathed, such simple words with much more meaning hidden in the syllables. Soraya barely registered that she’d tipped her head further, inviting the caress of his nose along sensitive flesh. Her pulse raced, but for reasons other than fear.