Page 3 of Claimed By the Boss

“Lyra,” he says, slow and precise, like he’s tasting the word.

“That’s me.”

“I’m Damien,” he replies, offering his hand.

I take it. His grip is firm, but not aggressive. Just... solid. “Nice to meet you, Damien. Even if the introduction was a bit dramatic.”

“Memorable,” he corrects.

I laugh. A real one this time. The tight coil in my chest loosens just a little.

I glance at his companion, who is still ignoring us, and then back to Damien.

“Is your accent Russian?” I ask, regretting it instantly.

He doesn’t seem to mind. “It is. I was born in Moscow.”

“It suits you.”

That almost-smile again. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“It was meant as one.”

Another pause. This one comfortable, somehow.

“I should get back to work,” I say, even though I kind of don’t want to.

He nods once. “You probably should.”

I turn, walking away quickly before I can say something stupid. But I feel his eyes on me the whole way.

The rush picks up again, but I move through it on autopilot. I’m all smiles, grace under pressure, gliding between tables like I haven’t just had my wrist grabbed and nearly lost my job for throwing a drink in someone’s face, which I didn’t do, but very nearly did.

I finally glance back toward Damien’s table.

It’s empty. My chest drops in unexpected disappointment.

I approach the table, clearing glasses and checking for the bill. It’s been paid, of course. And the tip quite generous. Enough to make my stomach clench.

Then I see it again. The card.

This time, I actually look.

Damien Morozov

CEO, Integrated Solutions

I blink.

No way.

Integrated Solutions.ThatIntegrated Solutions. Cybersecurity firm with contracts in half the Fortune 500. The company I applied to last week. The one I’ve dreamed of working at since college.

The one I’m interviewing at tomorrow for fuck’s sake.

My hands go cold.

Well, shit.