Chapter 8: The Office Distraction
The harsh, artificial buzz of the fluorescents overhead was a stark comedown from the sun-drenched quiet of the penthouse. Kali stared at her computer screen, the glow reflecting in her bright green eyes. A half-finished brand strategy deck for ‘Veridian Vines Organic Juices’ mocked her. Pantone 14-5713 ‘Meadow Mist’ filled a sidebar box. It looked like dishwater. Everything looked like dishwater.
Her fingers, absentmindedly tracing the chipped rim of her 'World's Okayest Boss' mug (a self-deprecating gift to herself), still felt the phantom coolness of his skin. The memory surfaced, vivid and disruptive: Frankenstein’s thumb brushing her lower lip as he placed that microgreen on her toast. The deliberate slowness. The banked fire in his ancient amber eyes. "Fuel for the fire I cherish." The echo of his voice, low and resonant, sent a fresh wave of heat crawling up her neck. Blush number… infinity, probably.
She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to banish the image. Focus, Tice. Opening them, she found herself staring not at Meadow Mist, but at her own reflection ghosted on the dark monitor. The short platinum hair, messy from a morning spent unconsciously running her hands through it. The slight smudge of yesterday’s mascara she’d missed. The open, almost vulnerable expression she rarely let surface at work. Beneath the polished exterior of Kali Tice, Creative Dynamo… what lurked? Not darkness, exactly. More like… chaotic wiring. A deep-seated fear of being truly seen, the messy, anxious, needy parts that didn’t fit the ‘extremely kind, open-minded, spontaneous’ narrative. Could he handle that? Or would the ancient, monstrous hunger find that messiness… appetizing?
A sharp rap on her open office door made her jump. Derek leaned against the frame, holding a thick binder like a shield. His usual uniform – distressed designer jeans, an aggressively soft cashmere sweater in a color disturbingly close to Meadow Mist – seemed particularly grating.
"Kali. Veridian Vines mood boards." He placed the binder on the edge of her already overflowing desk with a thud that rattled her precarious stacks of design annuals. "Needs your sign-off before the client call. I’ve refined the 'Earthy Vitality' palette. Added more texture references. Moss. Weathered stone." He gestured vaguely. "Think… sentient forest."
Kali forced a smile, swiveling her chair towards him. "Sentient forest. Got it. Full of… vibes?" She pulled the binder towards her, flipping it open. Pages of carefully curated images: dew on ferns, misty woodland paths, smooth river stones. Beautiful, sterile. Soulless. It lacked the visceral punch of Frankenstein’s impossible avocado toast. Bean integrity, she thought, stifling a hysterical giggle. Derek would combust if she suggested 'Bean Integrity' as a brand pillar.
"Not just vibes, Kali," Derek corrected, a faint edge to his voice. "Narrative. Depth. The essence of rejuvenation captured visually." He leaned closer, peering at her screen. "How's the deck shaping up? Hit the Meadow Mist notes I sent? Needs to sing purity. Clarity."
"It’s… misting," Kali managed, resisting the urge to minimize the window displaying a picture of Frankenstein’s kitchen counter at dawn, sunlight glinting off the knife he’d wielded with lethal grace. She clicked back to her deck. "Clarity. Purity. Singing. Check." Her fingers, still on the keyboard, trembled slightly. The memory of those same fingers laced through his cool, strong ones last night flashed, visceral and distracting. The absolute safety of it, wrapped in his impossible strength. Could that same strength, that terrifying restraint, hold space for her chaotic insecurities? For the days when the spark felt less like an anchor and more like a volatile fuel leak?
Derek frowned, tapping a perfectly manicured finger on her desk near a precarious tower of Pantone swatch books. "You seem… distracted. Everything alright? Big weekend?" His tone was light, but his gaze was sharp, probing. He smelled faintly of expensive sandalwood and unspoken judgment.
Kali took a deliberate sip of her now-lukewarm coffee, the bitterness grounding her. "Peachy, Derek. Just wrestling with the profound existential weight of green juice packaging." She forced a brighter tone, the practiced deflection smooth. "This moss shot is particularly… mossy. Very sentient."
He didn’t smile. "Glad you appreciate the nuance. Client expects the presentation deck by noon. Needs to be flawless." He lingered, his eyes sweeping over her cluttered domain – the vintage typewriter gathering dust in the corner, the towering stacks of art books serving as makeshift bookends, the framed abstract print slightly crooked on the wall. His gaze settled back on her, taking in her simple sweater and jeans, the lack of her usual bold earrings. "Try to infuse some… passion into it, Kali? Veridian Vines is premium. It demands fire."
Fire. The word landed like a spark hitting tinder. The ember in her core, the one Frankenstein anchored and cherished, gave a distinct, warm pulse. Kali felt it bloom low in her belly, a sudden surge of heat that had nothing to do with embarrassment. It was a flicker of the raw energy he’d drawn from the deep place, now inextricably part of her. Her fingers tightened on the mug.
"Fire," she repeated, her voice lower than intended. She met Derek’s gaze directly, the haze of distraction momentarily burned away by that internal flare. Her green eyes seemed brighter, sharper. "Yeah, Derek. I think I can manage some fire."
He blinked, momentarily thrown by the sudden shift in her energy, the unexpected intensity in her usually warm eyes. He cleared his throat. "Right. Good. Noon." He turned and left, the scent of sandalwood receding.
Kali stared at the closed door, her heart pounding. The spark pulsed again, a warm, persistent thrum against her ribs. Fire. He wanted fire? She looked down at her hands. Cool fingers tracing her lip. A cool hand claiming her hip, promising patience. "I will wait. My hunger… will be patient. For you."
Could she trust him? Not just with her body, healing under his impossible restraint, but with the tangled, unpolished mess of her inner world? The fear that coiled beneath her kindness, the anxieties she buried under spontaneity? Was his patience, his claimed ‘cherishing’, a cage for his monstrous side, or a container vast enough for all of her?
She turned back to the screen, to Meadow Mist and the mood board full of sentient moss. The cursor blinked. The fluorescent lights hummed. But Kali Tice felt a different kind of hum resonating within her bones. Anchored. Terrified. Alive. Her fingers flew to the keyboard, not typing about green juice, but pulling up a blank document. She needed to think. To unravel the whirlwind. She typed a single line, the words stark and honest against the white screen:
He sees the flame. But what about the smoke?
Outside, the city thrummed, oblivious. Inside her cluttered office, surrounded by the scent of old paper and stale coffee, Kali stared at the words, the anchored spark inside her burning steady, casting long, uncertain shadows. Trust wasn't a meadow. It was a leap into the deep place. And the landing… that was the terrifying part. The deck could wait. Right now, she needed to figure out if she was ready to jump. The echo of his vow whispered in her mind, a cool counterpoint to the fire within: "I am here." She hit save. Drew a shaky breath. The leap, she realized, was already happening. She just hadn't hit the ground yet. Or maybe… she’d landed somewhere entirely new, and the falling was just the aftershock. The spark pulsed, warm and insistent. Time to map the terrain.
The fluorescent buzz intensified, drilling into Kali’s temples like a tiny, angry insect. Meadow Mist mocked her from the screen. Sentient forest moss mocked her from Derek’s binder. The phantom coolness of Frankenstein’s thumb tracing her lip mocked her deepest attempts at professionalism. She shoved the binder aside, sending a cascade of Pantone swatches skittering across the worn oak desk. 14-5713 landed face-up. Dishwater confirmed.
"Fire," she muttered, the word tasting bitter, inadequate. He’d wanted fire in the presentation. Derek, clueless Derek, demanding passion for pressed celery water while the real fire, the anchored spark Frankenstein had pulled from the abyss and banked within her, pulsed low and insistent beneath her ribs. It wasn't passion for Veridian Vines. It was a visceral echo of his hunger, his terrifying restraint, the way he’d watched her sleep. "Cherish," she breathed, touching her forehead where his cool lips had pressed. The word felt too vast, too ancient, for her cluttered office smelling of dust and stale coffee grounds.
Could that terrifying vastness hold her messy wiring? The late-night anxieties that gnawed? The fear that her kindness was just polished armor? The spark flared, warm and demanding, a counterpoint to the icy dread coiling in her gut. He saw the flame. Did he see the smoke, too? The chaotic tendrils of doubt and need she hid? Her fingers hovered over the keyboard, the blank document still open, that single stark line glaring: He sees the flame. But what about the smoke?
Outside, a siren wailed, distant and mournful. The vintage typewriter in the corner, a relic from her grandfather, seemed to gather dust more pointedly. A paperweight shaped like a dachshund stared at her with glassy, accusatory eyes. The deck was due. Derek would materialize. The city pulsed, indifferent. The spark pulsed, insistent. Anchored. Terrified. Falling. Mapping the terrain meant admitting she was already lost somewhere new. Her hand, seemingly of its own volition, slid her phone from beneath a sketchpad filled with abandoned logo concepts. The screen lit up, blindingly bright in the dim office.
Her thumb found his contact. Just the number. No name saved. Too dangerous. Too real. The digits blurred. Her pulse hammered in her throat, a frantic drum against the fluorescent hum. What was she doing? Calling the ancient, monstrous entity currently restraining his hunger for her? Because Derek mentioned moss? Because Meadow Mist looked like despair? Because the phantom coolness on her hip felt more real than the worn leather of her chair? Because the emptiness of his bed that morning, the unbearable emptiness he’d confessed, echoed the hollow space behind her ribs where trust should be?
She pressed call before logic could intervene. The ringtone sounded impossibly loud, tinny and cheap against the memory of his resonant voice. One ring. Two. The scent of ozone and stone seemed to ghost through the stale air. Three rings. Her knuckles whitened on the phone. Stupid. Reckless. He was probably… doing ancient being things. Smiting something. Manifesting ethically sourced coffee beans. Four rings. She should hang up. Pretend it was a pocket dial. Blame Derek’s sentient forest nonsense for temporary insanity.
The line connected. Silence. Not dead air. The dense, charged silence of a predator holding perfectly still. Kali couldn’t breathe.
"Little flame." His voice wasn't a question. It was recognition. Low, resonant, vibrating through the cheap speaker and straight into her bones. It held the quiet intensity of the penthouse at dawn, the weight of his gaze in moonlight. "The spark flickers. Uneasy." He knew. Of course he knew. Distance meant nothing to that connection.
Kali’s breath hitched. Words tangled in her throat. "Frank." Just his name. It came out strangled. Small. "I…" I’m scared. I’m thinking about smoke. I can’t stop blushing. Your bed felt vast without me too. None of it formed. "Derek wants fire," she blurted instead, the mundane absurdity crashing into the cosmic tension of the call. "For celery juice. Sentient forest moss. Pantone Meadow Mist." She gestured wildly at her screen, as if he could see it.
A pause. She could almost hear the ancient gears turning, processing the sheer banality of Derek’s existence against the backdrop of millennia. "Fire," he repeated, the word layered with meaning she felt deep in her marrow. "For… moss." A subtle shift in the silence. Was that… amusement? Incredulity? "The spark burns clear, Kali Tice. Yet your voice…" He paused, searching. "It carries a tremor. Not of fear. Uncertainty." He saw it. He always saw it. "Speak."
The command, gentle yet absolute, shattered her defenses. The words tumbled out, raw and unfiltered. "It’s stupid. It’s Derek and moss and this… this feeling like I’m pretending. Polishing surfaces while underneath…" She swallowed hard, staring at the crooked abstract print on her wall. "It’s messy. Chaotic. Not… not fire. Just… smoke. And I don’t know…" Her voice cracked. "If you see that. If that’s… safe. With you." She squeezed her eyes shut, bracing for… what? Dismissal? Confusion? The monstrous hunger stirring?
Silence stretched. Thick. Heavy. Kali could hear her own frantic heartbeat. Then, his voice, softer than she’d ever heard it, yet carrying the weight of mountains. "Little flame." A breath. "Fire creates smoke. It is the shadow of the light. The echo of the burn." His words painted images in the dusty air of her office. "The deep place was not clean. It was raw. Chaotic. Primal." Another pause. She could feel his focus, sharp as the knife he’d wielded. "You anchored me there, Kali. In the heart of the storm." His voice dropped, resonating with a possessiveness that curled her toes. "Your chaos is not a flaw. It is the terrain." The certainty in his voice was absolute. Terrifying. "I map all of it. The flame. The smoke. The embers." A beat. "It is mine to cherish. To protect. Even from…" His voice hardened infinitesimally, "...Derek's moss."
A choked sound escaped Kali – half sob, half hysterical laugh. Relief, profound and dizzying, washed over her, followed instantly by a fresh wave of heat flooding her cheeks. He saw it. He named it. He claimed it. Her messy wiring. Her chaotic smoke. Hers. To cherish. The spark flared, warm and bright, resonating with the deep thrum she felt vibrating down the phone line. It wasn't just anchored. It was seen. Entirely.
"Frank, I…" She started, her voice thick.
A sharp, impatient knock rattled her office door. Derek’s voice, tinny and demanding, sliced through the profound connection. "Kali? Veridian Vines deck? Now? Client call moved up!"
Kali flinched, the mundane world crashing back. She met the dachshund paperweight’s glassy stare. "Gotta go," she whispered into the phone, the words rushed. "Derek’s moss… it calls."
A low rumble vibrated down the line. Not quite a growl. Not quite a laugh. Pure Frankenstein. "End the moss, little flame." The possessiveness was a tangible thing. "Burn steady. I map the smoke." The line went dead.
Kali stared at the phone, the screen darkening. The fluorescent buzz roared back. Derek knocked again, sharper. "Kali!"
She took a shuddering breath. The phantom coolness on her lip was gone. Replaced by the lingering resonance of his voice claiming her chaos. The spark pulsed, steady and strong. Anchored. Seen. Entirely. She shoved the phone under the sketchpad, straightened her sweater, and ran a hand through her messy platinum hair. Meadow Mist glowed mockingly on the screen.
She clicked the presentation open. Sentient forest moss stared back. Kali Tice smiled, a real smile this time, sharp and bright. "Alright, Derek," she called out, her voice clear, carrying a spark Derek couldn't begin to comprehend. "Let's talk about igniting… Meadow Mist." Her fingers flew over the keyboard, deleting the dishwater green. She typed a new headline, bold and defiant: Veridian Vines: Beyond the Mist. Find the Fire. The spark hummed its approval. Time to burn some moss.
The cursor blinked under Kali’s new headline: Veridian Vines: Beyond the Mist. Find the Fire. The fluorescent lights seemed to dim slightly, the hum fading into a distant background drone. A strange calm settled over her, cool and sharp as Frank’s gaze. It wasn't Derek’s moss she saw anymore. It was dew steaming off sun-warmed rocks after rain. It was the deep, vibrant green of ancient ferns unfurling, alive with trapped sunlight. It was the pop of a perfectly ripe tomato, the glisten of olive oil on dark bread.
Her fingers flew. Meadow Mist vanished, replaced by a bold, saturated Pantone 17-5938 ‘Viridian Forest’. She dragged in textures: rough-hewn wood grain, the intricate lace of frost on glass, the swirling patterns of minerals in polished stone. She narrated not purity, but resilience. Not clarity, but vitality, raw and untamed. "It’s not about escaping the world," she typed, the words flowing like Frank’s low rumble in her memory, "it’s about finding the fierce, untamed heart of it within a sip." Her voice, pitching her concept to the suddenly attentive faces on the Zoom call minutes later, wasn't her usual polished cadence. It was lower, richer, vibrating with the anchored spark. She spoke of deep roots and hidden fires, of nourishment that felt like an awakening. The clients weren't just nodding; they were leaning in, eyes wide.
An hour later, Kali powered down her laptop. The silence in her office felt different – charged, not oppressive. The chaotic stacks of books seemed like curated artifacts. The dusty typewriter a relic of a different, less vital time. She gathered her bag, the simple movement fluid, purposeful. Derek materialized in her doorway as she slung it over her shoulder, his expression a mix of astonishment and something jagged – envy, maybe, sharpened by disbelief.
"Kali." His voice cut through the quiet, too loud. "That presentation… it was… unexpected." He stepped into the room, blocking her path subtly, the scent of expensive sandalwood cloying now. "Brilliant, frankly. Where did that come from?" His gaze swept over her, lingering on her face, searching for clues. "You're leaving? It's barely three."
Kali met his eyes. No deflection. No forced lightness. Just a steady, calm gaze that felt foreign and utterly right. "Presentation's done. Client loved it. I’m heading out." She moved to step around him. The spark hummed, a low, warm note against her ribs. Anchored.
He shifted, matching her movement, his hand landing lightly, possessively, on her forearm. His touch felt hot and intrusive after Frank’s cool claim. "Hold on." His tone turned faux-casual, brittle around the edges. "Seriously, Kali. What's going on? You’ve been… different. Distracted one minute, then setting the whole
Derek’s fingers tightened on her forearm, hot and insistent against her skin. "Hold on." His voice scraped, the faux-casual veneer cracking. "Seriously, Kali. What's going on? You’ve been… different. Distracted one minute, then setting the whole damn room on fire the next." His gaze, sharp with suspicion and something uglier—entitlement—raked over her face. "New boyfriend? Some… inspiration?" The word dripped with implication.
Kali yanked her arm back, the sudden movement sending a cascade of Pantone swatches fluttering to the floor. Meadow Mist landed at Derek’s polished loafers. "Personal space, Derek," she snapped, the spark flaring hot beneath her ribs, lending her voice an unfamiliar edge. "And my inspiration is none of your business. Presentation’s done. Client’s happy. I’m leaving." She stepped forward, aiming for the door he still partially blocked. The scent of his sandalwood cologne felt suffocating, cloying.
He shifted, blocking her path fully now, his jaw tightening. "Everything here is my business, Kali," he stated, his voice low and dangerous, abandoning pretense. "Especially when it affects performance. This sudden… ferocity." He gestured dismissively at her laptop. "It’s erratic. Unprofessional." He leaned in, his breath warm and unpleasant on her cheek. "You think flashing a bit of unexpected passion makes you indispensable? Makes you… untouchable?" His hand shot out again, not grabbing her arm this time, but landing flat against the doorframe beside her head, caging her in. "You answer to me."
Panic, cold and sharp, sliced through Kali’s momentary calm. The anchored spark pulsed, a warm counterpoint to the icy dread flooding her veins. She opened her mouth, a retort dying on her lips as Derek’s proximity pressed in, his eyes hard and possessive. The fluorescent buzz roared back, deafening. The chaotic stacks of books seemed to lean in, trapping her. She braced against the worn oak desk, knuckles white. "Back. Off. Now." The words trembled despite the fire within.
Derek’s lips curled into a thin, unpleasant smile. "Or what, Kali? You’ll unleash more… fire?" He sneered, leaning closer still, his gaze dropping pointedly to her mouth. "Maybe I like it when you—"
The air pressure dropped. Sudden. Violent. Like the room had been plunged deep underwater. The fluorescent lights flickered wildly, casting jagged, stuttering shadows. A low, subsonic hum vibrated through the floorboards, rattling the vintage typewriter’s keys. The scent hit Kali first – ozone, sharp and electric, cutting through dust and stale coffee and Derek’s cloying sandalwood. Then, cold. An impossible, bone-deep cold radiating from the doorway Derek had been blocking.
Derek froze mid-sneer. His hand dropped from the doorframe. He turned, slowly, confusion warring with a dawning, primal fear on his face.
Frankenstein filled the doorway. Not just occupied it. He was the doorway. The bustling office corridor behind him seemed to blur and recede into insignificance. He wore simple dark trousers and a charcoal sweater, yet they looked like armor carved from night itself. His platinum hair was loose, falling around a face sculpted from ice and fury. His amber eyes weren't ancient pools; they were supernovae contained within orbits of obsidian, fixed on Derek with an intensity that stripped flesh from bone. The air crackled. Static lifted the fine hairs on Kali’s arms.
He didn’t speak. Didn’t need to. His presence was a physical blow. Derek stumbled back a step, crashing into Kali’s desk, sending the dachshund paperweight tumbling. His mouth opened, closed. No sound emerged. Only a choked gasp.
Frankenstein took one step into the room. Just one. The temperature plummeted further. Frost bloomed instantly on the windowpane beside Kali. His gaze never left Derek, pinning him like an insect under glass. The subsonic hum deepened, vibrating in Kali’s teeth. She saw Derek’s knees buckle slightly. Saw the stark terror etch itself onto his features, erasing all arrogance.
Then, slowly, deliberately, Frankenstein’s gaze shifted. It moved from Derek’s paralyzed form to Kali. The supernova fury didn't vanish; it banked, transforming into something else – a terrifying, possessive focus. He took her in: her wide green eyes, the rapid rise and fall of her chest, the way her knuckles were still white against the desk. His expression remained impassive, carved stone, but Kali felt it. The shift. The leashed hurricane of rage redirected, contained solely for her witness.
He extended one hand towards her. Not a gesture. A command etched in inevitability. His cool fingers, she knew, would feel like salvation against her flushed skin. The spark within her surged, a warm, answering beacon in the sudden, frozen silence. The ozone scent intensified. The fluorescent lights stabilized, casting a harsh, unforgiving light on Derek’s ashen face and Frank’s outstretched hand.
Kali didn't hesitate. She pushed off the desk, stepping around Derek’s frozen form as if he were merely inconvenient furniture. Her small hand slid into Frank’s cool, waiting grasp. His fingers closed around hers instantly, possessively, anchoring her not just physically, but deep within her core. The chaotic whirlwind inside her stilled. The fear dissolved. Only the spark remained, humming in perfect resonance with the ancient power holding her hand.
He turned, pulling her gently but firmly with him, back towards the doorway, back towards the blurred corridor. He didn't look back at Derek. Didn't acknowledge him at all. Derek was already irrelevant. A discarded husk in the wake of something infinitely older, infinitely more dangerous. As they crossed the threshold, Frank’s low voice, resonant and utterly devoid of warmth, finally broke the silence. It wasn't loud. It didn't need to be. It carried the weight of glaciers calving.
"Her name," he stated, the words dropping like stones into the frozen air behind them, "is Kali Tice." A pause, thick with unspoken annihilation. "Remember it."