Page 55 of The CEO

The thought of using her merely as a release for my carnal desires sickens me. I want more from her. I want itall, and unless she’s willing to surrender that to me, I won’t take anything more than what she offers.

“Whatever role you choose,” I say, surprising myself with the honesty. “My organization could use someone with your skills, your perspective. But the choice must be yours.”

Her eyes widen slightly at this unexpected freedom. “You’re not going to threaten me? Manipulate me? Force my compliance?”

I smile, withdrawing my hand from her face. “Would any of those approaches work with you, Eve?”

A small, reluctant smile touches her lips. “Probably not.”

“Precisely.” I lean back, giving her space. “Besides, forced loyalty is no loyalty at all. If you join us, it must be because you believe in what we do.”

She studies me, wariness mingling with curiosity in her expression. “And if I choose not to?”

“Then we ensure your silence through mutual interest rather than coercion.” I hold her gaze steadily. “You’ve witnessed enough tonight to understand the stakes. You’ve participated enough to be implicated. We protect our own, Eve . . . even those who choose not to join us formally.”

She nods slowly, processing this. “So I’m already in, whether I choose to be or not.”

“In a manner of speaking.” I reach for her glass, my fingers brushing hers as I take it to refill it. “But there are degrees of involvement, levels of knowledge. How deep you go is your decision.”

As I pour whiskey into her glass, I observe her from the corner of my eye. She’s handling this conversation with remarkable poise for someone who shot another person (and witnessed their death) for the first time tonight. Most would be sobbing, bargaining, falling apart. Eve sits calmly, analyzing her options, weighing consequences.

Yet as I return her glass and our fingers touch again, I find myself hoping she’ll choose involvement for reasons beyond utility or self-preservation. I want her to see the beauty in the justice we deliver, to recognize the necessity of our methods. I want her to choose this—to choose me—not because circumstances force her hand, but because she shares my vision.

This unexpected desire for her genuine alignment rather than her mere compliance is another variable I hadn’t accounted for in my calculations.

“You’re not what I expected,” she says suddenly, breaking the silence.

I raise an eyebrow. “No?”

“When I first saw you in the forest preserve, I thought I understood what kind of man you are.” She takes a sip of whiskey, her eyes never leaving mine. “But you’re more complex than that.”

“As are you.” I incline my head slightly. “The obituary writer with a hunger for justice that exceeds the boundaries of law. The woman who pulls a trigger without hesitation when threatened.”

Color rises in her cheeks, but she doesn’t look away. “Maybe we recognize something in each other.”

Her words echo my own from days ago, when I told her I saw something in her worth cultivating. The symmetry between us suggests that despite my manipulation, despite the circumstances that have brought us to this point, there is something genuine developing between us.

“Maybe we do,” I agree softly.

Something inside me shifts—a tectonic realignment of priorities and plans. The strategic calculations that have guided every interaction with Eve until now recede, overwhelmed by a more primal need to possess her completely.

It would be so easy to give in to this moment. To take what I’ve wanted since I first saw her. She’s vulnerable, seeking comfort after trauma, her defenses lowered by adrenaline and whiskey.

And that’s precisely why I can’t.

I reach down to where she sits on the couch, gently cupping her chin, tilting her face up to mine. Her lips are still flushed from our kiss, slightly parted in anticipation.

“It’s been a long night,” I say, my voice rougher than intended. “You need rest.”

Confusion flickers across her face, followed by something that looks dangerously like disappointment. “Damien?—”

“I’m going to shower,” I interrupt, releasing her chin and straightening. “Will you be all right for a few minutes?”

She blinks, processing the abrupt shift. Her composure returns quickly, another reminder of her remarkable resilience.

“Yes,” she finally says. “I’ll be fine.”

I nod, fighting the urge to touch her again. “Make yourself comfortable. There’s more whiskey if you want it.”

---