Page 61 of The CEO

His voice echoes through my subconscious, a promise and threat woven together until I can’t distinguish which is which. I feel the phantom pressure of his fingers sliding inside me, the possessive grip of his other hand around my throat, and wake with a gasp that’s half-fear, half-arousal.

My bedroom is dark and still, the clock reading 3:42 a.m. I’m alone, but my body burns as if he’s still touching me. I press my thighs together, trying to ease the ache between them, but it only intensifies the memory of his hand there, his fingers expertly finding places that made me want to beg despite everything I know about him.

“What the fuck is wrong with me?” I whisper to the empty room, my voice unsteady in the darkness.

This man threatened someone in the woods. This man is probably responsible for who knows how many deaths. And yet, my body responds to the memory of his touch like he’s oxygen and I’m drowning.

I should be repulsed. I should be terrified. Instead, I’m lying here in the middle of the night, wet and aching for a man who represents everything I should despise.

My hand slides beneath the covers almost against my will, finding the slick heat between my thighs. I close my eyes, trying to conjure some nameless, faceless fantasy, but Damien’s dark gaze fills my mind instead . . . the way he looked at me in his office, like he could see through every defense I’ve ever constructed.

“Stop,” I whisper, but my fingers don’t obey, circling where I need them most as Damien’s voice plays on repeat in my head.

“Whatever you’re imagining right now is nothing compared to the reality of what I would do to you, Eve Thorne.”

A shudder runs through me at the memory, my back arching slightly off the mattress. I bite my lip to keep from making noise, though it’s not like anyone would hear it anyway. My movements quicken, chasing release that feels both shameful and necessary.

When it comes, it crashes over me with unexpected intensity, Damien’s name falling from my lips before I can stop it. The sound of it hangs in the air afterward—an admission I can’t take back.

Tears spring to my eyes as reality returns, the momentary pleasure dissolving into confusion and self-loathing. I curl onto my side, wrapping my arms around myself as if I might physically hold together the pieces that are breaking apart inside me.

“What’s wrong with me?” I ask again, the question piercing the darkness.

Is this just some twisted Stockholm syndrome? Some biological response to danger? Or is there something broken inside me that recognizes and responds to the darkness in him?

Outside, rain begins to fall, tapping against my window in a rhythm that sounds like an accusation. I stare into the shadows of my bedroom, unable to escape the truth: I’m drawn to Damien Knox in ways that terrify me not because they’re unfamiliar, but because they feel like coming home.

Like recognizing something I’ve always carried within myself but never had the courage to name.

I reach for my phone, scrolling through my notes about him, about The Shadows, about the mysterious deaths connected to his business dealings. The facts line up like arrows pointing to a truth I don’t want to face: Damien Knox is dangerous, possibly deadly, definitely involved in things beyond the bounds of law.

And, God help me, I want him anyway.

I toss the phone aside, turning to stare at the ceiling. Sleep won’t return tonight, not with this revelation burning through me. The war between my moral compass and my body’s treacherous desire has no clear victor—just an uncomfortable stalemate that leaves me exhausted and confused.

Dawn is hours away, but I already know what morning will bring: more questions without answers, more evidence to gather, and beneath it all, this unwanted hunger that no amount of righteous indignation seems able to extinguish.

I groan, closing my eyes and willing myself to go back to sleep, but this time . . . I see Kurt’s face—the shock in his expression as the bullet tore through him, and the way his eyes went vacant as life drained from his body.

And I pulled the trigger first.

I bolt upright, gasping for air, my nightshirt damp with sweat. The digital clock on my nightstand reads 4:56 a.m. Even in the darkness of my apartment, I swear I can still see blood on my hands, though I scrubbed them raw in the shower. I remember how it felt—warm and sticky, the metallic smell overwhelming my senses.

“Get it together,” I whisper to myself, pushing back the covers then padding to the kitchen for a glass of water.

The cold tile against my bare feet grounds me momentarily as I gulp down the liquid, trying to wash away the taste of fear lingering in my mouth. Through my small kitchen window, Chicago’s skyline glitters in the distance. Somewhere out there, Damien Knox is likely awake too.

Does he struggle with the memories of those he’s killed? Or has he grown numb to it?

I’ve both taken a life and witnessed one taken. The realization settles into my bones like a cold weight. What terrifies me more than the memory itself is how quickly I’m adapting to this new reality. The initial shock is already morphing into something else—a morbid curiosity about the man who killed without hesitation to protect me.

My laptop sits on the counter where I left it earlier, beckoning me. Sleep isn’t coming tonight, so I might as well be productive. I open it, the screen’s glow harsh in the darkness. My search history reads like a roadmap to obsession: “Damien Knox,” “The Shadows Chicago,” “vigilante justice organizations,” “secret societies,” with each query more desperate than the last.

There are nowhat-ifsabout whether this organization exists now. Damien confirmed that it does, but I know that still doesn’t mean I have any real proof. So I try a different approach, searching for patterns of unexplained deaths among Chicago’s criminal elements. If The Shadows exists beyond Damien’s cryptic references, there must be evidence of their work. I create a new document, mapping out suspicious deaths with potential connections to Knox Industries or its subsidiaries.

Hours pass as I dig deeper, cross-referencing obituaries I’ve written with news reports about criminal organizations suffering unexpected losses. By the time dawn breaks, sending pale light filtering through my blinds, I’ve identified nine potential operations by The Shadows—deaths ruled as accidents or natural causes but connected to individuals who had crossed powerful people.

I rub my burning eyes, leaning back in my chair. The pattern is there, but it’s still circumstantial. I need more—I need to see for myself what Damien actually does when he’s not playing the philanthropic CEO.

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