Daemon Forbes was a fucking nightmare in a tailored suit.

He ran the company like he ran everything else in his life with brute force, silence, and a permanent scowl carved into his face. Tattoos peeked out from his cuffs and collar like warning signs. His green eyes dared people to challenge him. No one ever did. People feared him. Board members shut the fuck up when he walked in. Grown executives tripped over their words.

And then there was Archer Grey, his assistant, who apparently woke up every morning and chose violence.

“Good morning, sunshine,” Archer chirped, dropping a stack of files onto Daemon’s desk. “You’re late to your own meeting, which is impressive considering you fucking live here.”

Daemon didn’t look up. “Get out.”

Archer leaned closer instead. “Wow. Two words. New record. You feeling emotional today or just being a dick as usual?”

Daemon’s jaw clenched. He hated noise. Hated Archer’s stupid grin. Hated how the man smelled like coffee and clean laundry and something warm that didn’t belong in Daemon’s cold, controlled world.

“You’re annoying,” Daemon said flatly.

Archer beamed. “And you’re obsessed with me. See, we both have problems.”

Daemon stood so fast his chair scraped harshly against the floor. Archer’s mouth shut, finally, eyes flicking up. Daemon loomed over him, massive and tense, scars and ink and rage wrapped in expensive fabric.

“You don’t know when to shut the fuck up,” Daemon growled.