Elena's POV
After that night — the kiss — everything changed, even if no one else could see it.
Adrian stopped meeting my eyes for more than a second. Stopped walking beside me in the hallways, stopped letting his voice soften when he said my name. And yet… the restraint he carried wasn't coldness. Not really. It was a taut line of control, as if he were holding back something too volatile, too dangerous to unleash.
I noticed it in the smallest moments — the brush of his shoulder as we passed in the hallway, the way his hand lingered just a fraction too long on a stack of files he handed me, the almost imperceptible pause before he spoke, as if measuring every word against some internal rule. He was still Adrian Knight, the man everyone feared, respected, obeyed. But now… I knew he wasn't untouchable. Not to me. Not anymore. And that knowledge scared me more than it thrilled me.
It was a Thursday afternoon — the kind that stretched endlessly, a day that felt like it might never end. The office was alive with tension. Phones rang incessantly, emails pinged, and deadlines stacked like towers that teetered under their own weight. I hadn't eaten since morning, my stomach gnawing at me like a dull, persistent ache.
I was rushing across the hall with a stack of reports, trying to make it to a meeting that started in fifteen minutes, when it happened. A careless intern, rushing in the opposite direction, turned too quickly. A cup of coffee — too hot, too full — tipped in my direction.
The liquid spilled across my wrist, sharp and searing. I gasped, dropping the reports, my eyes stinging with both shock and pain.
Before I could even register what had happened, a voice cut through the commotion. Low. Controlled. Dangerous. Familiar.
"What the hell happened here?"
Adrian.
He was across the room in seconds, as if the sound of my gasp had drawn him there with invisible threads. His suit jacket was off, sleeves rolled to his elbows, exposing the strength in his forearms. His eyes blazed, jaw clenched so tightly that I could see the muscle twitch under his skin. There was no hesitation in his movement. No doubt.
"Sir, I—" the intern stammered, flustered and terrified.
But Adrian didn't even glance at him. The command in his voice silenced the entire floor. "Don't you have eyes? Look what you've done."
The room froze. Every employee seemed to hold their breath. My wrist throbbed, but it was nothing compared to the thrum in my chest at the intensity radiating off him.
He was at my side before I could react, hand hovering over my own. His thumb brushed against the reddened skin, a touch that was meant to soothe but carried an intimacy that made me catch my breath. For a fleeting heartbeat, his eyes softened — just for me — before hardening again with fury.
"Adrian, it's fine," I whispered, trying to calm him. "It was an accident—"
"No one hurts what's mine."
The words struck me harder than the burn. What's mine.
He didn't even seem aware of the intimacy in them, of how sharply they resonated in my chest — not until the silence stretched long and heavy between us. My pulse hammered, and I could feel the heat of his gaze tracing me. His thumb continued its gentle movement over my wrist, light and protective, and I realized with a start that the entire office had become irrelevant.
"Let's get you to the infirmary," he muttered finally, voice quieter now, carrying that low, controlled intensity that always made the world feel smaller, like it existed for just the two of us.
He didn't let anyone else near me. Not the intern, not any of the hovering assistants. He carried the remaining reports himself, his hand at the small of my back guiding me as though I were fragile, as though he alone could keep me safe.
Inside the infirmary, the nurse began wrapping my burn, talking gently about ointments and rest. I barely heard her. My world had narrowed to him — to the sound of his voice, low and steady, whispering just for me.
"Does it hurt?" he asked, eyes flicking up to mine, though his tone suggested he already knew the answer.
"Not much," I lied, brushing it off, though every word felt insufficient.
His gaze narrowed slightly, sharp but unreadable. "You're a terrible liar," he said, the corners of his mouth twitching in a way I couldn't place — amusement, exasperation, or some other emotion he wasn't letting me fully see.
I allowed a faint smile. "You're a terrible boss."
For a split second, something softened in him. Something dangerous. Something I shouldn't have wanted to see. His eyes flickered with emotion, quick and almost imperceptible, but enough to make my chest constrict and my thoughts scatter.
He reached up, brushing a stray strand of hair behind my ear. His fingers lingered just a moment too long, his touch deliberate and intimate, a ghost of contact that made my skin ignite.
"Elena," he said quietly, voice low and rough, carrying an edge of something he didn't often show, "you make me lose control. Do you know that?"
I couldn't answer. I wanted to, but the words caught in my throat. Because I knew. I could feel it too — the pull, the gravity, the way he made it impossible to think about anything else.
He looked down, exhaled sharply, and straightened, forcing the familiar mask of the CEO back over himself. Control returned in measured steps, but I could see the effort it took.
"I'll have your workload reduced for the week," he said finally, voice clipped but still carrying that tension just beneath the surface. "And… stay away from that intern."
"Adrian—"
His tone dropped, almost pleading now. "Please, just listen."
It wasn't an order. Not really. It was a plea. A silent acknowledgment that he was fighting against something stronger than authority, stronger than reason, stronger than himself.
And in that moment, I understood. I understood the weight he carried behind the mask, the fear of what he felt, the struggle to maintain his perfect composure. Adrian Knight — untouchable, unshakable, a man everyone else measured against fear and respect — was shaking because of me.
I had felt it in the rush of that night in Boston. In the stolen moments of proximity, in the brush of his fingers, in the way his restraint faltered when the world was quiet. And now I saw it laid bare in the faint tremor of his jaw, in the subtle tension in his shoulders, in the intensity of his gaze.
He didn't know how to handle what he felt. He buried it under rules, under power, under the perfection the world expected. But beneath it… I had seen him. I had felt him. And it terrified me. Because the weakness he hid so carefully was mine to see. Mine to feel.
I swallowed, trying to steady myself, trying to breathe normally. "Thank you," I whispered, barely audible. "For… caring."
He didn't answer immediately, but his hand lingered at the small of my back as he guided me out of the infirmary. The weight of him pressed against me, protective, possessive, restrained. And though he wouldn't say it aloud, I could feel it in every measured step, in every careful glance over his shoulder.
For a man who had the world at his fingertips, who ruled with authority and precision, his restraint around me — the control he exercised over himself — was as intimate as any confession.
And I realized then, with a clarity that both thrilled and terrified me, that Adrian Knight's weakness, his vulnerability, his unguarded self… was me.
I wasn't sure if that made me lucky — or doomed.
Because from that moment forward, every glance, every touch, every word he carefully measured held the weight of unspoken desire and fear. And I could no longer pretend it was just a workplace accident that had brought us here. It was something deeper. Something dangerous. Something real.
And I wasn't sure either of us were ready for it.
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