Page 16 of Claimed By the Ruthless King

I scramble for the door handle in a panic, holding it open for the man to prevent any more blood from transferring. My heart stopped when Mr. Moretti raised his voice, and his anger wasn’t even directed toward me.

“Go and check on him, Rob,” says Mr. Moretti, gesturing his Vice President out of the office. “Make sure he follows all instructions.”

Robert Moretti nods, disappearing out of the room.

A tense silence extends between us, my breath catching as his gaze wanders over to mine. Multiple questions fly through my mind, but the words die on my tongue the second I try to speak. My mouth closes on its own accord.

Speaking could get me in trouble.

Mr. Moretti’s emerald eyes cut across the room at me, and now I’m seriously in trouble, wet between my legs at the thought of us repeating our Friday morning antics. He looks like he could use a bit of fun. His jaw might break if he clenches it any tighter.

I glance at the blood streaked across the floor, the red marks across the desk.

My gaze snags over Mr. Moretti’s muscles, visible through the tight shirt he always wears. The blood slashed over his collar is new.

Mr. Moretti usually prides himself on being a very put together man, tie always straight, hair always styled back into relatively neat locks.

“Is there a problem, Miss Bennett?” he says, clearing his throat.

Multiple, but I keep my lips pressed together and go with the flow.

“N-no, sir,” I stutter. “No problem at all.”

“Are you sure about that?” he says, his voice dropping an octave, his brow arched as he continues to stare.

I refuse to break eye contact, to show signs of weakness, but the blood streaked across his shirt is making me lose the will to live as I picture him breaking that man’s nose, enforcing discipline the most brutal way imaginable.

Breaking someone’s nose for insider trading seems like fair punishment, but it may still cause unnecessary lawsuits.

Mr. Moretti appears to have a good hold on the law, staring deep into my soul instead of dismissing me for walking in on something that could get him in trouble.

But the way he’s arching his brow, challenging me, suggests he already knows I’ll keep this a secret.

“If there is no problem, Miss Bennett,” he continues, stepping forward. “Why are you planning to resign?”

Busted.

“Um,” I mutter, my mind going completely blank. Admitting the cold hard truth that I find my boss attractive, to the point where I’m struggling to focus, is much harder than simply bending over his desk.

These green eyes have seen me naked, seen my literal asshole wink between my ass cheeks as he fucked me doggy style, and yet I’m struggling to tell him why I want to quit.

“You read the letter?” I cringe.

“Yes,” he says, silence stretching between us. The blood is no longer an issue. Nothing is when I’m alone in a room with him.

“I was going to hand it to you before…”

“Before you spilled hot coffee all over me.”

“Yes,” I admit. “And then we got distracted.”

“Hm,” grunts Mr. Moretti, stepping closer. “‘Distracted’ is an interesting word for it. I was simply giving you an opportunity, Miss Bennett, to be yourself. But I see here in your resignation letter”—he produces it from his pocket—“that you would like to leave to seek new opportunities." He sets the letter aside on the desk, right where some blood has been spilled.

I frown, thinking he did this by accident. But there are no accidents with Mr. Moretti, no mistakes. He smears the letter in blood, using the paper to mop up the mess. I watch his hand work over the paper, veins bulging as he flips it over, making sure the letter is fully coated. By the end of it, his hands are the same color, drenched in blood, like he plunged them in red paint.

“Do I not give you enough opportunities here to grow, Miss Bennett?”

“Yes, but…”