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The most annoying thing about it is— Silco isn’t even attractive.
Like, objectively, he just isn’t. Sevika, his right hand (left hand? which of her hands is dedicated to him, the flesh or the freshly-styled steel?), is both taller and broader than him. He’s scrawny, compared to some other chem-barons, even. Skinny, lightweight.
Wiry, your mind offers, slender, graceful.
His skin has the ashy cast associated with true children of Zaun, raised in the Gray. Not to mention the practically necrotic damage around his eye, the scars that scream out good people aren’t made ugly. (Though that’s a hard sell in the undercity, at least.) The eye itself is a symbol of ‘undesirable’: pitch black with a hellfire glow.
And yet.
And yet.
He isn’t attractive, but… he is magnetic.
His presence demands attention, respect, power. He’s intimidating as hell. He commands a room.
And fucking damn it, that’s sexy.
Your brain knows, objectively, Silco is the worst person to lust over. At least some other chem-baron, like that new guy, Finn, would be acceptably hot. No one denies that. If you have to cast some monster in your carnal daydreams, Finn would at least be an acceptable piece of meat to objectify.
And yet.
Something gnaws away in the pit of your stomach, eyes glued to the man who’s currently dressing down your associate.
You can’t look away.
You stare at his lips. Too thin. Teeth chipped. He probably kisses like a dead fish, you tell yourself, stubbornly. Plus he’s too old for you. What is he, almost 40?
Brows draw together, a muscle in your jaw bunching as you frown at the Eye of Zaun. His voice is hypnotic, a low smoky drawl that carries so many shades of subtle derision beneath the more obvious superiority. He’s horrible. A villain.
Even as you think it, his gaze lifts from its dismissive focus on his desk, skewering your associate. It’s only secondhand and it still knocks the breath out of you. A look. Your muscles tense, on tenterhooks for his judgment. Your body has swayed forward of its own accord, bated breath paused mid-inhale.
Charisma. That’s what he has. Gravitas. No, beyond that; gravity. He is the gravity of the situation. The mastermind behind the scenes, the composer and conductor and—
A shock sparks through your system as mismatched eyes merely glance your way. Heat floods your body, skin prickling with a sensation akin to pins and needles. His gaze is on you for a fraction of a moment. You remember to breathe once he averts his eyes again, the slightest scornful curl to his lip there for just a moment before he leans back in his high-backed chair, fingers steepled before him.
Spindly things. All knuckles and bone.
Nimble, your brain substitutes. Dexterous.
Fucking hell, he barely looked at you. You shouldn’t need to keep telling yourself how unappealing he is just to stop that thrilled - or terrified - rush. Fingers flex at your sides, not wanting to move too much, not wanting to draw his attention. Someone else is taking the fall right now; pulling focus to you, when they’re already deemed to be at fault, seems like piss poor decision making. You didn’t survive this long in Silco’s employ by being an idiot.
Or, well shit, you certainly hope not. You’ve been doubting yourself, in the last five minutes of one-sided conversation from your boss to the three members of your particular (almost failed) assignment. Not for anything you did - the guy getting the sit-down treatment is the one at fault, you don’t doubt that - but for how much you can’t stop looking at your boss.
Heat creeps up your neck as Silco’s words spin on in inky currents. Okay, you’ll give him that; sexy voice. If you even attempt to deny that to yourself, you’ll lose the rest of the argument. And he’s well dressed, you can’t argue that point either. He may not be a tank of a man, physically, he may not have the visual impact Vander did, in the old days, but he is imposing. Wealth and power are stitched into every seam of his meticulously tailored clothes, and yet you have no doubt he wouldn’t hesitate to get his hands dirty.
…And now you’re thinking about the inexplicable desire to see him roll up his sleeves and bare those stupid pasty forearms.
Swallowing hard, your eyes flick elsewhere, berating yourself again. He’s not hot. He just isn’t. Aesthetically, he’s— he’s just well put together, but he isn’t attractive.
And yet, loath as you are to admit it, you are attracted to him.
Not him, you correct the thought quickly; surely you’re attracted to the money. Right? Everyone wants to be taken care of.
But that money comes with plenty of strings attached, and it’s all teetering on the assumed success of this shimmer venture.
Is it the position? He has influence, he has property— hell, you’re only one of probably hundreds of employees, the numbers rising every day. If he didn’t have that, he wouldn’t hold whatever bizarre allure he has, right?
The man in front of the desk is attempting clumsy excuses, and your eyes drift from the anxious twitchy movements of his half-hearted defense, to Silco’s eerie stillness. You don’t blame your associate as his words peter out into silence. The hold Silco has on the room is oppressive, and he isn’t saying a word. His silence alone pulled your attention right back to that uneven stare.
Wrong, you decide. If he didn’t have the criminal empire, if he didn’t have the wealth… he’d still have this. This particular brand of self-assuredness backed up by sheer grit. This determined control.
Like he senses your intense study, his gaze flicks to you, and your lips press back together when you hadn’t even realized they’d opened that slightest bit. Your heart has launched into your throat, heat clenching your insides in a vise grip, a feeling almost like vertigo hitting you when he gives you his full attention.
You’re swooning, some part of your brain observes. You daft bastard, you’re swooning over a man who’s probably about to order all three of you killed.
Your body tenses, back straightening as you chide yourself back into top form. The determined set of your brows is back, trying to project the confidence you thought you had before getting called here, even with your pulse racing. Sheer stubborn will keeps you from breaking eye contact, though you’re not sure how long it can last, with blood rushing in your ears.
He breaks first, but you know it wasn’t a competition. It was a test. And, as he looks away and your heart inches down your throat again, you spot the smallest twitch of his lips and realize: you passed.
Which can’t mean anything good.