August Holt's day began with a kick in the pants, as the Russians would say. His body was wracked with excruciating pain from the morning, and he could scarcely get out of bed. Every muscle ached, as if he had spent the night fighting with demons. He had hoped the afternoon's training would loosen him up as he let off some steam, but it didn't. Consequently, the energy generated by the exoskeleton was simply insufficient to maintain its effectiveness.

The heels of the assistant's shoes clicked softly on the polished marble floor as she hurried to inform her boss, Sir Holt, that a meeting with a potential investor had been arranged for the evening. The woman tried calling and texting August, but the lack of response suggested he was off again in one of his favourite spots in the manor: the training room.

He was furious, irritated. But August's gaze roved over the assistant as the door swung shut behind her. Yeah, she was perfect for a quick fun, and besides, this bird was just his type. His lips curled into a knowing smirk, his eyes glinting devilishly.

He grabbed her wrist⎯mhm, sharply; the suddenness made her gasp. “Come,” he ordered, the man's voice laced with impatience as he dragged her into a narrow, dimly lit lumber-room. He locked the door behind them, plunging the small space into shadow. Ignoring her half-hearted attempts to protest, August pressed her against the cold metal shelving.

“Don't mewl, woman,” he hissed. “I just needed strong emotions, so I didn't feel like a wreck all day. What's stronger than proximity or murder? But I'm not in the mood to kill, so⎯”

His smirk deepened as his hands slid down her sides, coming to rest on her waist. The Dutchman's touch was fervent and demanding, his fingers gripping the fabric of the skirt eagerly. He leaned in closer, his breath touching her skin as his nose traced a line along her collarbone, catching the faint heat of her perfume.

“Wees een braaf meisje,” he murmured in a hoarse voice, his lips pressing softly onto the neck. “And I'll be gentle.”