Page 86 of The CEO

Her answer will determine everything—whether she can truly accept the monster beneath the man, whether the vulnerability I’ve shown tonight will become my destruction or my salvation.

“Yes,” she says finally, her voice steady and sure, “. . . and no.”

I reach for her, my hand cupping her face with a gentleness that belies the violence these same fingers have inflicted.

“That’s why you’re perfect for me, Eve,” I murmur, drawing her closer. “You see the monster and you don’t look away.”

She studies me across the space that separates us, trying to reconcile the many versions of myself I’ve presented: the cold CEO threatening Roberts in the forest preserve; the calculating manipulator who drew her into his world; the ruthless killer who ended Kurt Ivy’s life without hesitation; the broken man who knelt before her; and the obsessed watcher who carried her name on his skin.

“You promised to let me go,” she says finally, “if that’s what I choose after hearing everything.”

I nod once, resignation settling over my features. “I did. And I will.”

“Even knowing that it might destroy you? Destroy The Shadows?”

“Yes.” No hesitation, no calculation. Just truth.

She sets her glass on the table and stands, watching as my body tenses, preparing for her departure.

Instead, she moves toward me, closing the distance between us until she’s directly in front of my chair. I look into her eyes, confusion and hope warring in their depths as I search for any hint of what’s about to come next.

Slowly, deliberately, she reaches out and places her hand against my cheek. Her skin is warm beneath my palm, the slight stubble of my beard rough against her fingers. I remain perfectly still, afraid any movement might shatter this unexpected moment.

“Eve?” Her name is a question on my lips, uncertain and hopeful.

Instead of answering, she leans down and presses her lips to mine. The kiss is gentle, tentative—nothing like the hungry desperation of our previous encounters. My hands remain at my sides, allowing her complete control of this moment, this choice.

When she pulls back, my eyes are closed, my breathing uneven. “I don’t understand,” I whisper.

“Neither do I,” she admits, her hand still cradling my face. “By any rational measure, I should walk away. I should hate you for what you did—for the years you watched me, for everything you’ve just confessed.”

My eyes open, meeting hers with cautious hope. “But?”

“But hate isn’t what I feel when I look at you.” She moves closer, settling into my lap, her knees on either side of my thighs. “What I feel is more complicated. Darker. Deeper.”

My hands finally move, coming to rest lightly on her hips, as if still wondering if this is a cruel prelude to rejection. “Tell me,” I urge.

“I feel understood,” she says, trying to articulate the strange alchemy between us. “I feel seen in ways no one else has ever seen me. The darkness in me, the hunger for justice, the capacity for violence I didn’t know I possessed until I pulled that trigger in the alley . . . you recognized all of it before I did.”

My grip on her hips tightens slightly, but I remain silent, letting her continue.

“What you did to my parents was unforgivable,” she says, watching my face fall at the words. “And yet, I find myself offering forgiveness anyway. Not because you deserve it, but because I choose to give it. Because holding on to that hatred hurts me more than it hurts you.”

I swallow hard, emotion making my voice rough when I speak. “I don’t deserve your forgiveness.”

“No, you don’t.” She leans closer, brushing her lips against mine again. “But you have it anyway. And you have me, if you still want me.”

The words have hardly left her lips before my arms encircle her, pulling her tight against my chest. My mouth finds hers, this kiss deeper, hungrier, but still restrained. My hands frame her face as our kiss deepens, a hunger building inside me that I’ve held back for too long. When we finally break apart, both breathing heavily, I search her eyes for any lingering doubt.

“Have you made your decision?” I ask, my voice rough with barely contained desire.

“Yes,” she answers without hesitation. “I choose you.”

Something shifts inside me at her words, a darkness unfurling, a predator freed from its cage. I stand, taking her hand firmly in mine.

“Come with me,” I command rather than request, leading her from my study toward the hidden entrance that guards the underground sanctuary.

Eve follows, confusion flickering across her face as I guide her past the main chamber where the council meets, toward the inner sanctum that houses my throne—the room where final judgments are passed, where ultimate power resides.

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