Page 51 of The CEO

“Is that supposed to be comforting?”

“It’s the truth. I don’t believe in offering false comfort.”

She turns to face me, her back against the sink. We’re standing closer than propriety would dictate, but neither of us moves to create distance.

“How many?” she asks, her voice a whisper.

I know exactly what she’s asking. How many lives have I taken? How many deaths have I orchestrated? The tally is precise in my mind—I remember each one: every face, every reason, every consequence.

“More than I can share with you right now,” I answer truthfully. “Not because I don’t want to, but because that knowledge would make you complicit in ways you’re not prepared for.”

“You’re protecting me again.”

“Always.”

The word hangs between us, weighted with implications neither of us is ready to examine fully. Her eyes drift to my mouth, a fleeting glance that sends heat coursing through my veins.

“You have blood on your collar,” she says, reaching up to touch the spot where Kurt’s spray must have caught me.

Her fingers brush against my neck, the contact feather-light yet searing. I remain perfectly still, allowing her this exploration—this moment of control—when I’ve been manipulating every aspect of her life for weeks.

“We should clean you up properly,” I say, gently taking her wrist in my hand. The rapid pulse beneath my fingers betrays her outward calm. “Your clothes . . .”

She glances down at herself, seeming to truly notice the blood spatters for the first time. A shudder runs through her body.

“I can’t believe I . . . I shot him. I pulled the trigger.” Her voice trembles slightly. “I didn’t even hesitate.”

“Survival instinct,” I explain, releasing her wrist to reach for a warm, damp washcloth. “The mind processes threat faster than conscious thought when death is imminent.”

I carefully wipe a smear of soap from her jawline that she missed in her washing. Her skin is soft beneath the cloth—warm and alive. The contrast between her vibrant presence and the cold corpse we left in that alley strikes me forcefully.

“Is that how it works for you?” she asks, her eyes searching mine as I continue to clean her face with gentle strokes. “Instinct?”

“No.” I meet her gaze directly. “For me, it’s calculation. Deliberate. Necessary.”

“Like tonight?”

“Tonight was . . . different.” I lower the cloth, my fingers grazing her cheek. “Tonight was both calculationandinstinct.”

She doesn’t flinch from my touch, doesn’t shy away from the admission that I killed with dual purpose. Instead, she leans almost imperceptibly into my hand, her eyelids fluttering briefly.

“I should change,” she says, her voice husky.

I nod, stepping back to give her space. “I’ll be outside. There are fresh towels if you want to shower.”

As I turn to leave, she catches my wrist, mirroring my earlier gesture. “Damien.”

I pause, looking back at her. The vulnerability in her expression contrasts sharply with the strength I’ve witnessed in her tonight.

“Thank you,” she says simply. “For everything.”

I could use this moment. I could manipulate her gratitude, her shock, her newfound dependence on me. I could solidify my control over her, ensuring she becomes exactly what I need for my organization.

Instead, I find myself saying, “You don’t need to thank me, Eve. Not for this.”

I close the door behind me, unsettled by my own restraint. The Eve Thorne who stands in my bathroom now is not the same woman who confronted me in my office days ago. She’s seen what I’m capable of—what she’s capable of—and hasn’t run screaming. She hasn’t broken down in tears or moral outrage. She’s processing, adapting, evolving.

I move to the bar and pour myself another drink, considering the new variables in my carefully crafted equation. I had intended to use Kurt’s attack as a means to bind Eve to me through shared culpability and mutual protection. I hadn’t anticipated how her response would affect me—how the sight of her covered in blood would awaken something fiercely protective rather than merely possessive.

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