Page 47 of The CEO

The second he goes to stand back up, I seize the opportunity and lunge forward, pushing him onto his back. But it’s not enough, because even in his drunken state, he doesn’t lose his grip on the knife, and he’s back up on his feet in a second.

There’s no time for me to run, so I do the only thing I can. I pull the gun from my purse, pointing it at him with a shaky hand.

“Stay back or I’ll shoot!” I wrap both hands around the grip, trying to remain calm. I can feel my palms sweating against the cool steel. Panic flashes across his face only for a second before being replaced with a smirk that makes my skin crawl. Shaking, I reach my finger down, switching off the safety.

“No, you woul—” He only takes one step toward me before I pull the trigger, sending a bullet right through his torso.

He stumbles once, then twice, with a groan, falling backward as he clutches his stomach in disbelief. Blood soaks his shirt in seconds, dark and thick. He looks down in shock, then back up at me as he stumbles to the ground.

“You shot me!” he finally says.

My hands begin to shake violently, my stomach rolls, and I have to keep myself from vomiting. I drop the gun, panicking before falling to my knees and scurrying over to his side to press my hands over the gushing wound.

“I—I—I need to call someone.” Terror crashes through my panic at a rapid rate. The blood continues to pour from Kurt’s stomach, his face growing paler by the second. I replace my hands with his, falling to my ass as I scramble to find my phone. But when I do, my fingers are too sticky with blood to type in the numbers.

“Shit!” My voice is now high-pitched with terror, tears streaming down my face as I fumble with my phone, holding it far enough away to scan my face. Finally, the screen opens and I dial 9-1-1, my thumb hovering over the green CALL button, but I can’t make myself do it.

“Call 9-1-1, you bitch.” He presses his hands harder against his stomach to stop the bleeding, but it’s not doing much to help.

If I call 9-1-1, I’ll probably be arrested. I know how these things work: a young woman drinking at a bar alone gets attacked by a man? They’ll say it was my fault, that I was in the wrong place at the wrong time. He only has a knife . . . will they see this as self-defense? Especially since he was once one of them—a cop?

Instead, I pull up Damien’s name, about to dial his number, when the sound of crunching gravel makes me freeze.

Someone’s coming!

But when I turn to look to see if this person can see us, it’s a familiar pair of dark eyes staring back at me, walking toward us with purpose.

“Damien?” I whisper his name, unsure if I’m imagining him, but then he speaks.

“Are you okay?” he asks me, reaching down to pick up the gun, his voice deceptively soft despite the situation.

“Call the fucking cops, you prick!” Kurt interrupts, wincing in pain, and turning his head to spit, but when he does, it’s a spray of blood that comes out. “Fuck, I’m fucking dying!” He then screams, “They’re trying to kill me!” in a pathetic last-ditch effort to stop what is inevitably about to happen.

Damien’s smile lacks any warmth as he takes a single step closer to plant his foot atop Kurt’s hands, where he’s pressing against his wound. He crouches down so the man has no choice but to look at him.

“Look at me.” He taps the gun against Kurt’s face. “You know who I am, don’t you?” He thrashes in pain at the weight of Damien’s foot. It’s evident he knows exactly who he is.

“Eve is under my protection.” He presses his foot down harder, and Kurt grunts in pain so loudly, I’m certain someone will hear what’s going on. But Damien doesn’t seem concerned. “So when you’re threatening her, you’re threatening me. And I don’t take kindly to threats.”

The possessive implication of Damien’s words should scare me, but instead, I find myself leaning into the idea of his protection.

“You . . . don’t know . . .” Kurt sputters out his words, “who you’re dealing with.”

“I know exactly who you are.” Damien’s tone is ice cold. “Kurt Ivy. Suspected in the murder of Tia Fellows four years ago. Charges dropped due to supposed procedural errors in evidence collection, but we both know it’s because you were a cop. Currently unemployed, living with your cousin after your last girlfriend kicked you out due to your increasing alcoholism and violent tendencies.”

Damien reaches a single black-leather-clad hand into his suit jacket, pulling out a dark, long, cylindrical item.

“I make it my business to know things, Kurt. Particularly about people who threaten what belongs to me.” Damien steps closer, staring down at Kurt’s pale face. “You’ve made a significant error in judgment tonight. One I’m about to correct.”

Time slows as Damien raises the gun, screwing the silencer on with methodical precision. His movements are fluid—practiced—like a deadly choreography he’s performed countless times.

“No, no!” Kurt kicks his legs, trying to get away, but it’s useless.

“Look at me,” Damien commands, his voice so soft it’s almost tender. He crouches down to Kurt’s eye level, maintaining direct eye contact. “I want to watch the moment you understand it’s over.”

Damien’s pupils dilate slightly as he positions the gun, a flash of pleasure crossing his features that I can’t miss. This isn’t just vengeance or justice . . . it’s satisfaction. His breathing deepens almost imperceptibly with the rhythm of a predator savoring the kill.

The first shot is precise, entering just below Kurt’s sternum. I flinch, but Damien remains perfectly still except for the soft exhale that escapes his lips. It’s a sound so intimate, it makes my stomach clench.

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