The iron Queen weakness

​By lunchtime, the entire corporate tower was paralyzed with absolute terror. Every employee at Hart Global learned the new, unwritten law of the empire: Mocking Matilda Hart will cost you your job, but touching her man will cost you your life.

Matilda entered her office and sank into her chair. She couldn't focus. No matter how hard she tried, her thoughts kept drifting back to Alaric.

Every time she closed her eyes, she felt the hot touch of Alaric's large, warm hands on her waist from the night before.

By noon, Matilda was already exhausted. She closed the file in front of her and leaned back in her chair, rubbing her temples.

"I'm going home for lunch," she said, reaching for her purse.

It was a perfectly reasonable excuse. She had barely slept the night before, and the morning had been nothing but meetings and problems. But deep down, Matilda knew that wasn't the real reason.

She wanted to see Alaric.

When she stepped out of her private elevator into the penthouse, the air smelled divine, seared ribeye steak, garlic butter, and fresh rosemary. 

​Alaric was standing at her marble kitchen island in dark sweatpants and a tight black t-shirt that stretched tightly over broad, powerful shoulders. He turned as she walked in, a lazy, devastatingly handsome smile spreading across his face.

​"You're late, babe," his deep voice caressed her, smooth as silk and thick with heat. "I was starting to think I'd have to bring dinner to your office again."

"I'm exhausted today. I just wanted to rest early," she said casually. Then she looked toward the kitchen. "What's for lunch?"

Alaric set down his cooking utensils, stepping away from the counter to close the distance between them. A warm, amused glint flashed in his eyes as he towered over her, his eyes scanning her exhausted face.

​"Ribeye steak, garlic mashed potatoes, and roasted asparagus," Alaric murmured, his voice dropping low. He reached out, his large, warm fingers gently tracing the sharp angle of her collarbone before adjusting her blazer.

"You look like you fought a war this morning, boss. Did someone piss you off?"

​Matilda didn't pull away from his touch. Instead, her breath hitched slightly as his warmth seeped through her silk blouse, making her heart flutter. She quickly looked away, hoping he didn't notice. 

​"Just reminded someone of their place," she breathed, meeting his gaze head-on, her tone fiercely possessive.

"No one gets to talk about what belongs to me."

​Alaric paused, his thumb gently caressing the side of her neck, his calm smile turning into a slow, intoxicating smirk.

​"Is that right?" he whispered, leaning down until his lips were mere inches from hers. "And here I thought I was just the stray staying in your guest room."

Matilda's breath caught. For a moment, she forgot about everything else. All she could focus on was Alaric standing so close, his presence making it hard to think clearly. His scent of cedar and rain filled her senses.

​"If you keep looking at me like that, Matilda," Alaric murmured, his voice dropping into a low, dangerous growl right against her cheek, "that steak is going to get cold. And I worked hard on it."

​Matilda blinked, her icy composure snapping back to reality.  Though her cheeks flushed a faint, betraying rose. She cleared her throat and looked back at the tablet, forcing her hands to stop trembling.

​​As she sat down, her tablet buzzed with an urgent update regarding her rival, Theron Kingsley, and his latest bid for Vale Capital's logistics division. Matilda scowled at the complex trade numbers on the screen.

​"Theron is overpaying by twenty percent for a dead supply chain," she muttered, frustration lacing her voice. "It makes no sense."

​Alaric casually leaned over her shoulder, setting down a glass of red wine. His broad chest lightly pressed against her back, his dark hair brushing her cheek, wrapping her entirely in his scent of cedarwood and rain.

​He glanced at her tablet for a mere fraction of a second.

​"It's not dead," Alaric said softly in her ear, his warm breath tickling her skin. "Vale secretly locked in Singapore's exclusive maritime shipping routes last month. Theron isn't buying a supply chain, Matilda. He's trying to cut off your Asian trade network."

​Matilda froze.

​She re-calculated the trade law metrics in her head. He was completely right.

​She turned her head slowly, her lips inches from his jawline. She didn't question how a homeless man knew international maritime trade law. Right now, she didn't care. All she felt was the undeniable, intoxicating pull of the man holding her in the dark.

​"You're full of surprises, Alaric," she murmured, her gaze dropping to his lips.

​Alaric offered her a slow, devastating smirk, his fingers brushing a stray lock of burgundy hair behind her ear.

​"I'm just getting started, boss."

Alaric's strategy had worked. By four o'clock, Hart Global had bought up Sterling Capital's regional debt, putting an end to Theron Kingsley's takeover attempt before he even realized what had happened. His board was in chaos, while the financial news had already shifted its attention from Matilda's personal life to her unexpected victory.

To celebrate, and because Alaric apparently owned nothing but a few sweaters and worn jeans, Matilda insisted on taking him shopping.

She didn't take him to an ordinary mall. She drove him to The Glass Galleria on Madison Avenue, a luxury boutique reserved for Manhattan's wealthiest clients.

When her Pagani pulled up, the store was already prepared for her. The doors were closed to the public, security stood nearby, and champagne waited on silver trays.

Alaric stood in the center of the VIP fitting suite in front of a floor-to-ceiling gilded mirror. He was wearing a dark charcoal, custom-tailored suit crafted from Italian silk and wool that hugged his broad shoulders, trim waist, and long legs like armor.

​Matilda sat on a plush velvet lounge chair across from him, a glass of champagne resting between her manicured fingers. Her eyes tracked every single inch of him with open, fiercely possessive admiration.

​"See?" she murmured, her voice smooth as velvet as she took a slow sip. "Much better than sweatpants."

Alaric turned slowly, using one large hand to loosen the silk tie around his throat. A lazy, devastatingly handsome smirk touched his lips. "It's tight around the shoulders, babe. I prefer the sweater you bought me. It's easier to move in when I'm chopping vegetables."

​"You're wearing the suit," Matilda said softly, her tone leaving absolute zero room for argument. "If the media is going to photograph my man, they're going to photograph perfection. I won't have anyone looking at you like you're anything less than royalty."

​Alaric's ocean-blue eyes darkened slightly at her words. He stepped closer to her chair, looming over her with that quiet, magnetic intensity that always made her pulse skip a beat. "Your man, huh?"

​Before Matilda could respond, the heavy glass doors of the VIP suite clicked open with an arrogant, uninvited thud.