Page 50 of The CEO

Damien

She’s staring into the fire, the dancing flames reflecting in her eyes as she sits on my leather sofa, still clutching the crystal tumbler of whiskey I handed her. I watch her from across the room, monitoring each subtle shift in her expression—the way she occasionally blinks as if coming out of a trance, the slight trembling that still lingers in her hands despite her attempts to hide it.

Eve Thorne is in shock, but she’s handling it with a composure that surprises me. Most people who witness their first killing—let alone participate in one—shatter like glass. They weep, they rage, and they fall apart in spectacularly predictable ways.

But not Eve.

She sits in dignified silence, processing the night’s events with a stoicism that makes something in my chest tighten. The firelight catches on the dried blood spatter on her shoes, a stark reminder of what transpired in that alley. Her blood-streaked face bears silent witness to the violence she not only endured but initiated.

“You should clean up,” I say, breaking the silence that has stretched between us since our conversation ended. “The bathroom is through there.” I gesture to a door off the study.

She nods, rising slowly from the couch. When she stands, I notice a slight sway in her posture. The adrenaline crash is setting in, her body finally processing the physical toll of trauma. Before she can take a step, her knees buckle.

I’m at her side in an instant, my arm wrapping around her waist to steady her. Her body is warm against mine—smaller than it appears, and fragile in a way I hadn’t fully registered before. The scent of her perfume mingles with the metallic tang of blood, creating a combination that stirs something primal within me.

“I’ve got you,” I murmur, my voice rougher than intended.

She looks up at me, her eyes meeting mine with a directness that catches me off guard. There’s no fear there—at least not of me. Instead, I see confusion, exhaustion, and something else. Something that looks dangerously like trust.

“Thank you,” she whispers, her hand gripping my forearm for support.

The simple contact sends electricity through my veins. I’ve orchestrated every interaction between us since the moment she photographed me in the forest preserve. I’ve manipulated scenarios, calculated responses, and maneuvered her precisely where I want her. But this—her body against mine when she’s vulnerable, her fingers pressing into my skin—feels unscripted. Genuine.

It’s . . . unsettling.

I lead her to the bathroom, supporting her weight with a gentleness that feels foreign to my hands. These same hands that ended Kurt’s life less than an hour ago, that have ended many lives before his, now cradle Eve like she’s made of precious glass.

“Can you manage?” I ask, pausing at the threshold.

She nods, but her eyes fall to her bloodstained clothes. “I don’t have anything to change into.”

“I’ll find something for you.” I hesitate, reluctant to leave her alone in her current state. “Will you be all right for a few minutes?”

A small, bitter smile touches her lips. “I just killed a man, Damien. I don’t think being alone in a bathroom is going to break me.”

Her use of my first name doesn’t escape my notice, and hearing it in her voice creates an unexpected warmth in my chest.

I nod and step back, allowing her the privacy she needs. As I move through my penthouse to retrieve clothes for her, I find myself analyzing my own reactions. This protectiveness I feel—it exceeds the parameters of my plan. I intended to use tonight’s events to bind her to me, to create a situation where she would have no choice but to accept my protection, my world.

But the fierce surge of possessiveness I felt when I saw Kurt threatening her wasn’t calculated. It was visceral, instinctive. I would have killed him regardless of my plans for Eve.

This isn’t part of the script I’ve been following since I decided to bring her into my orbit. This feels dangerously like caring.

When I enter the bathroom with a soft black T-shirt and sweatpants, I find her standing at the sink, staring at her reflection. She’s washed her face, leaving her skin pale but clean. Water drips from her chin, and strands of dark hair cling to her damp cheeks. Her blouse is unbuttoned at the top, exposing the delicate curve of her collarbone.

She meets my eyes in the mirror, and for a moment, we simply look at each other, the air between us charged with unspoken currents.

“I brought you something to change into,” I say, placing the folded clothes on the counter beside her.

“Thank you.” She doesn’t move to take them, her gaze still locked with mine in the mirror. “You saved my life tonight.”

“You had already saved your own,” I counter, stepping closer. “You shot him before I arrived. You would have survived without me.”

“Maybe,” she concedes, “but I don’t think I could have lived with the aftermath without you.”

Her honesty catches me off guard yet again. In all my calculations, I hadn’t considered that she might simply acknowledge the shift in our dynamic so directly. I’ve been preparing arguments, justifications, and subtle manipulations to ease her transition into my world. Yet here she is, skipping past all of that to recognize the fundamental change that’s occurred.

“The first one is always the hardest,” I say quietly, my reflection drawing closer to hers in the mirror. “It gets easier.”

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