7. Eve
Chapter 7
Eve
E den looms before me, its Gothic silhouette illuminated against the twilight sky. The wrought-iron gates twist into intricate patterns, including serpents winding through vines, their emerald eyes catching the moonlight as if watching my approach. The name Eden suddenly feels less like a rich man’s conceit and more like a warning. I’m about to enter the garden, and something tells me the serpent is already waiting inside.
The estate is massive—more castle than mansion, with stone towers and sprawling wings that stretch over manicured grounds. I had no idea such a beautiful monstrosity existed in Chicago.
The grand entrance hall sweeps upward in soaring arches, with crystal chandeliers casting prismatic light across marble floors. I’m not sure what I expected—maybe a damp, cobweb-filled space like Dracula would occupy? Something far colder than this Disney-looking fairytale that seems to sprawl on endlessly.
I feel eyes tracking my movement—watching me, assessing, hunting . . . and then, like the parting of the sea, Damien Knox is before me. And once again, the air is pulled from my lungs.
Every time I see him, he feels more imposing than before. The sharp lines of his all-black tuxedo accentuate his height, the subtle power in his shoulders, and the controlled grace of his movements. I force myself to meet his gaze, refusing to be intimidated.
But never has a man looked at me like he is right now, with eyes that leave no question as to what’s brewing behind them. They’re dark and heavy, casually roaming over my body like he’s looking for the best place to take the first bite.
And what’s even more screwed up is that you like it.
“Eve,” his voice is richer, lower than I’ve heard it before. He reaches for my hand, gently pulling it toward his lips before leaning in to plant the softest kiss against the back of my palm. “I’m pleased you came.”
“Did I have a choice?”
His gaze doesn’t flinch, and the question sounds a little insane now that I say it out loud.
“Kidding, of course,” I say, flashing a nervous smile. “I was intrigued by your invitation.” I manage the reply even though my jaw feels like it’s on the floor. He holds on to my hand a few seconds longer than necessary, his long fingers gliding a few inches up my arm before he finally releases it. “I feel out of place.”
“You do?”
“Yes.” I glance around, feeling like the eyes of the rich are on me, wondering who I am. “Like I don’t belong.”
Before I can register it, his fingers are against my jaw, pulling my gaze back to his. “You belong anywhere I want you to be.” His smile doesn’t soften the possessive edge in his voice. His eyes drop briefly to my neckline, his approval evident. “This color suits you perfectly.”
I don’t have time to ask him if he was following me yesterday before he gently presses his hand against my lower back, guiding me across the floor. I don’t think my brain could register a coherent thought right now anyway.
“Allow me to introduce you to some people who might interest a journalist of your . . . investigative nature.”
His comment brings me back to reality—a much-needed reminder that this is just an act from him, a way to lure me into trusting him and revealing what I know. I adjust my focus, and the next hour passes in a blur of introductions to more politicians, business leaders, and aristocrats than I ever care to meet again. But these are the people who pull the strings of this city—the puppeteers who control Chicago behind the scenes. Damien navigates these waters with practiced ease, his hand rarely leaving my back as he presents me as a talented writer working on a special project.
I try to observe it all: the subtle power dynamics that play out, the deference shown to Damien, the curious glances directed my way. Through it all, I’m acutely aware of his presence beside me, the heat of his hand against my back, the way he subtly positions himself between me and anyone else.
“You play this role well,” I murmur during a brief moment alone with him. I take a sip from my champagne flute. “The philanthropic businessman surrounded by adoring socialites and eager minions ready to serve.”
His eyes sharpen with interest, a smirk hovering at the corner of his lips. “And what makes you think I’m playing a role?”
“The same thing that makes me think there’s more to The Shadows than just a secretive little name that nobody seems to have ever heard.” I hold his gaze, noting a flash of surprise as he registers the information I just shared. “People reveal themselves in unguarded moments, Mr. Knox, just like you did in the forest preserve. I didn’t just take photos. I listened.”
“And what did that moment reveal to you about me, Eve?” He steps closer to me, his chest grazing my arm.
“That the man who threatens people in secluded meetings in the woods isn’t the same one who charms Chicago’s elite at charity galas.”
His laugh is genuine, surprising both of us. He steps one inch closer, invading my space almost intimately. My back hits a pillar behind me, and he reaches out to press his hand flat against it so there are barely a few inches between us. This time when he speaks, his voice is almost a whisper. “You’re dangerous, Eve.”
“How so?” I barely choke the words out.
He lifts his hand, dragging a single finger down my jawline. “In every way.”
My palms press against the cool marble of the pillar behind me, a relief from the warmth that’s begun to spread between my thighs and up my body. He leans his head down and forward, his nose replacing his finger, dragging it up my jawline till his lips are at my ear.
“There’s that look again,” he growls, sending my eyes to the back of my head. “And don’t you fucking deny it this time.”
Before I can respond, we’re interrupted by a striking woman in a midnight blue gown, her lips set in a perfect smile. “Damien, darling, you’ve been monopolizing your mysterious guest all evening.” She extends a manicured hand toward me. “Vivienne Blackwood. I don’t believe we’ve met.”
“Eve Thorne,” I reply, noting how Damien’s posture subtly shifts.
“Eve writes for the Tribune ,” he says, his tone carrying a warning I don’t fully understand.
“How fascinating.” Vivienne’s assessment is swift and dismissive. “And what exactly do you write, Miss Thorne? Current events? Fashion trends?”
“Obituaries, mainly.”
Her perfectly sculpted eyebrow rises. “Obituaries? How . . . unusual for someone attending one of Damien’s galas.”
“Eve has a unique perspective to offer,” Damien interjects smoothly. “Her insights are proving invaluable to certain projects.”
The exchange carries undercurrents I can’t fully decipher, but the tension between them is palpable. Vivienne’s smile remains fixed, but her eyes narrow fractionally, and I can’t help but wonder if they’ve fucked.
“I’m sure.” She turns back to Damien. “The Hanover Group is asking for you, darling. Something about the Singapore expansion.”
“I’ll find them momentarily.” His dismissal is polite but firm.
“Friend of yours?” I ask, turning to him after she walks away.
“Business associate.” His expression gives nothing away. “Excuse me for a moment. There are people I need to speak with.”
As he walks away, I take the opportunity to observe my surroundings more carefully. Beyond the champagne and music, I notice a heightened security presence that I wouldn’t have expected. There’s a man in a suit positioned at almost every room entrance. More than seems necessary.
I also notice the way the crowd naturally parts for Damien as he moves through it—the way the eyes follow him, making me curious how a man of his fame and power could ever maintain a secret life. These people respect him, certainly, but they almost seem to worship him. Their interactions suggest they see a god, or at least a man who can do no wrong.
My instincts buzz with quiet excitement. There’s a story here beyond a shady meeting in a forest preserve . . . something in the power dynamic and the underlying current of tension.
I slip my phone from my purse, capturing several candid images of the crowds. I keep it low against my side, so I don’t alert anyone to my activities.
“Find anything interesting?”
I nearly jump out of my skin at the voice behind me. Damien has returned, watching me with amused interest.
“Your security is impressive,” I observe, lowering my phone. “One might think you’re protecting something more valuable than just a mansion.”
“Perhaps I am.” He takes my elbow gently but firmly. “Come. There’s something I want to show you.”
He guides me away from the main ballroom, down a corridor lined with artwork that looks as though it should be in a museum. Ancient tapestries hang alongside contemporary masterpieces, the collection revealing both impressive wealth and impeccable taste.
“Your collection is remarkable,” I say, genuinely impressed and trying to take it all in as he ushers us forward.
“I appreciate beauty in all of its forms.”
We pause before a painting depicting a garden scene with dark, subtle undertones. Bright, beautiful flowers bloom in the foreground, accompanied by a shadowy figure lurking at one edge. “Particularly when it contains elements of darkness.”
He’s right behind me, the warmth of his chest barely brushing against my back. I study the painting and note that in the center, a tree hangs heavy with fruit.
“The Garden of Eden,” I whisper.
“Fitting, isn’t it, Eve?” I glance up at him, and the way he’s looking at me sends a shiver down my spine—not entirely from fear. “The duality fascinates me.” His eyes stay on me, dropping down to settle where I can feel my pulse throbbing in my neck. He reaches his fingers out, gently pressing a couple fingertips against my pulse. “Beauty and danger. Darkness and light. Good and evil.” I swallow as he drags a finger along my shoulder blade. “Often inseparable.”
Glancing down the hallway, I point toward a large ornate metal door. “What’s in there?”
He looks up, his finger dropping away from my skin. “Storage.” He grabs my hand, leading me further down the corridor. Something about his reaction tells me a different story. That door hides something much more important than storage.
When we get to the end of the corridor, we enter a small elevator that opens into a connecting glass hallway.
“None of my guests ever see this side of Eden,” Damien says as he unlocks the door with a key from his pocket rather than a keypad like the rest of the rooms. “I find their appreciation of the beauty in rarity completely lacking.”
The warm greenhouse air hits me immediately. It’s humid and heavy with an earthy scent. But unlike the cheerful community greenhouses I’ve been to in the past, this space carries a different energy. The plants surrounding us don’t offer bright and friendly blooms with familiar forms. They twist and curl in an almost alien-like configuration, their colors deep and dark.
“Welcome to my sanctuary.” He watches my reaction carefully, just like he does every time. It puts me on edge—making me feel like an innocent antelope being stalked by a lion. “Some of these are the rarest botanical specimens in the world. Some are even extinct in the wild.”
I move deeper into the flourishing space, suddenly aware of the sensual nature surrounding me. A blood-red flower unfurls before my eyes, its petals splayed open in invitation.
“This is remarkable.” I can’t hide the admiration in my voice. “I’ve never seen anything like it.”
“Few have. This section contains plants so rare, their very existence is regulated by international law. This one,” he gestures to an otherworldly bloom, the pride evident in his voice, “is a ghost orchid.” He points to another flower. “This is the very rare night-blooming cereus. It only blooms once a year, in June.”
“And these?” I ask, indicating a section of plants with unusually structured leaves behind separate glass partitions.
“That is a poison garden.” His tone shifts slightly.
“Poison garden?” I repeat, curious. I reach my hand out toward one in particular that catches my eye, but before I even come close, Damien’s hand is on mine.
“Don’t!” he barks, startling me. “They’re toxic to the touch. Beautiful, but lethal.” He moves closer to me, his tone and touch softening as he slowly drags his hand up my arm, pushing back a strand of hair from my face. “Like certain people . . . Now, this one,” he says, his finger hovering near but not touching a curved vine with purple veins, “is particularly fascinating. It secretes a toxin that paralyzes its prey, keeping them alive but completely helpless as it slowly consumes them.”
His eyes meet mine and I can’t help but wonder if he’s still talking about the plant, or if there’s another meaning lurking beneath his words. The vine curls around its supporting rod in a sensuous embrace, reminding me of how his arm had encircled my waist earlier.
Nearby, what appears to be an innocent white flower catches my attention. Its center contains a slick substance that catches the light.
“Beautiful but deadly,” Damien murmurs, his breath warm against my ear as he leans in close. “This one lures insects with its scent and appearance. They land, thinking they’ve found paradise, only to discover too late that they’re trapped.”
His finger traces the air just above my bare shoulder, not quite touching but close enough that I can feel the heat radiating from his skin as he reaches up and pushes a tendril of hair away. “Nature’s most effective predators are the ones that seduce their prey . . . and the prey step willingly into their trap.”
Our eyes lock, and for a moment, all pretense falls away. His eyes search mine in that calculated manner that reminds me of his control. It feels predatory, like he’s trying to find the most easily-accessible weak point to bring me down. And yet, I don’t look away. It’s like I can’t—like I want him to destroy me in the most intense way.
“Is that how you see yourself?” I ask him, refusing to look away despite his focused gaze. “Beautiful but deadly?”
“I see myself as necessary. Just like these plants, I serve a purpose in the ecosystem. One most people prefer not to acknowledge, but benefit from nonetheless.”
“And what purpose is that?”
“Balance.” He lifts his hand, his fingers hovering near my face as he steps closer to me. “Nature doesn’t recognize human concepts of morality, Eve. It simply enforces consequences. I do the same.”
The implication hangs between us, as heavy as the greenhouse air. He brushes another curl away from my face. Damien isn’t just confessing to being dangerous—he’s admitting that he takes justice into his own hands, even outside the bounds of human laws.
“Does that scare you?” His lips hover so close to mine. Excitement pulses through my body so fiercely, I’m certain it’s going to consume me.
The space between us pulses with electricity. I can feel his breath against my lips, warm and steady despite the tension crackling between us. My body betrays me completely . . . nipples hardening beneath my dress, a slick heat building between my thighs. I watch as his pupils dilate, nearly eclipsing the dark brown of his irises. His chest rises and falls faster now, the controlled rhythm from earlier abandoned as something primal takes over.
His hand slides up to cup my jaw, his thumb brushing across my lower lip before pressing it just enough that the tip of his finger drags against the slick inside of my lip. The small touch sends a violent shiver down my spine, my back arching slightly, involuntarily pushing my breasts closer to his chest.
He stifles a low growl that seems to emanate from deep in his throat, and I realize he’s fighting his own battle for control. The evidence of his arousal presses against me through his pants, hard and insistent, making it impossible to ignore the effect I have on him.
I’m drowning in sensation—the humid air of the greenhouse, the intoxicating scent of exotic flowers mingled with his cologne, the heat of his body so close to mine. My lips part in anticipation, tongue darting out to wet them, and his eyes track the movement with predatory focus.
“Should it scare me?”
His eyes flash dark. “Yes, it should. It’s alarming that you can’t sense danger this close when it’s breathing down your neck.”
“Like the consequences for Roberts?” I press, seizing the opportunity. “Or for the three men connected to Knox Industries whose obituaries I wrote?”
“Something like that.”
“This is too easy,” I say, aware of how much his mask is slipping with that confession. I step back, needing space to think clearly. “You’re showing me things nobody sees, admitting to things nobody knows . . . What I don’t understand is, if you’re just going to eliminate me, why admit it? Am I just the mouse in this game?”
Damien studies me for a long moment, his expression unreadable.
“Would you want to know if you’re the mouse in my game?”
“As opposed to what? Being blissfully unaware?”
His eyes are focused on my lips, his hand snaking around the back of my neck as the other settles against my waist . . . and all thoughts of whatever we were just discussing are now gone. My lips part and my eyes flutter shut.
“Whatever you’re imagining right now,” he says against my lips as his fingers slide from my waist to the slit of my dress, “is nothing compared to the reality of what I would do to you, Eve Thorne.”
Then, without warning, a loud clap of thunder crashes just outside the glass ceiling. The sudden sound reverberates through the structure.
I practically jump into his arms without a second thought, my body slamming against his chest. His arms are around me in an instant. Rain begins to hammer against the roof—the storm that was threatening to break all evening finally hitting.
“We should return to the main ballroom,” he says without making a move to leave. At first, I still don’t realize I’m in his arms, my face flat against his firm chest, one of his hands against my back pressing me against him, the other tangled in my hair at the base of my neck. “My absence will be noticed.”
I step back, breaking the contact and avoiding looking up at him. I’m embarrassed at my reaction to the storm, but more than that, I’m all too aware of how good his arms felt around me, and the need that instantly pooled low and heavy in my belly. Plus I’m far more embarrassed at the way I turned into putty in his hands the second he touched me.
The moment stretches between us, charged with something I’m reluctant to acknowledge. Then another crash of thunder breaks the spell, and Damien gestures toward the exit.
“We’ll continue this conversation another time,” he says, the suggestion sending another pulse of excitement through me. “When we have fewer . . . obligations.”
As we make our way back through the greenhouse and downstairs, I find myself studying his profile out of the corner of my eye. Everything about Damien speaks of discipline and restraint, yet I see something more brewing beneath the surface.
A primal danger that slowly continues to pull me in.
My dress suddenly feels too warm, too constraining. I tug at the tight bodice, subtly trying to fan myself. We’re nearly back to the ballroom when Damien pauses, his hand catching my wrist gently but firmly.
“One last thing, Eve.” His voice drops lower, more intimate, as he glances over his shoulder before pushing me against the wall in a flash. His body is pressing against me, his face an inch from mine as he grabs my throat with just enough force that it slightly constricts my breathing. This time there’s no reading between the lines; his anger is palpable. “Don’t you ever fucking investigate someone like me again, you understand me? You need to be very careful about whose home you enter. Not everyone is as understanding as I am.” His gaze travels down my body, his hand tightening around my throat just a little more as his mood shifts again. “This dress was meant for you.”
His tone switches at a dizzying pace. One second, his dark eyes stare down at me like I’m a liability, then the next, it feels like he’s about to tear me limb from limb in the most delicious way. But I don’t give him the satisfaction of letting him know he’s frightened me.
“Let me guess,” I say defiantly, “your warning is another promise ?”
He runs his nose against the skin of my neck, followed by his lips, as his hand moves from my neck to clasp my jaw. His fingers are stretching so wide, I’m certain he could crush my skull if he wanted to. His chuckle reverberates in my chest. “It’s a warning. Chicago has many shadows much darker than mine, and they won’t think twice about devouring an innocent little thing like you.”
As his words hang in the air between us, an unexpected image flashes through my mind: Damien’s hands pinning my wrists above my head, his mouth hot against my throat, his body pressing me down into silk sheets as I willingly surrender to his darkness. The vivid thought sends a sharp pulse of arousal through me so intense that I have to press my thighs together to relieve the sudden ache.
What’s wrong with me?
This man is dangerous, a possible killer, and here I am fantasizing about submitting to him completely. The realization disturbs me almost as much as it excites me—this new self-discovery that danger doesn’t repel me but draws me in like a moth to the flame. There’s something deeply wrong in wanting a man capable of the things I suspect Damien has done, yet I can’t deny the liquid heat spreading through me at the mere thought of his dominance.
“But you won’t?” I tilt my head, bringing my own hand up to rest against his chest. He watches my movements like he’s studying them, but just as soon as I press my palm against him, he grabs my hand and removes it. Then he releases me slowly, deliberately.
“Shall we?” He offers his arm, the perfect gentleman once more, his momentary intensity concealed again behind another version of himself.
I take his arm, acutely aware of the firm muscle beneath the fabric of his tuxedo. “Lead the way.”
I’m no longer certain which version of Damien Knox frightens me more. Or which I’m more drawn to.
Thunder crashes outside as Damien leads me through the crowd, his hand possessive at the small of my back, his carefully constructed world closing in around me like the petals of one of his rare flowers.
And despite every warning, every red flag, every single instinct for self-preservation . . . I find myself leaning into his touch, curious to discover what darkness waits at the center of Damien’s world.
* * *
E ven hours later, I wake tangled in my sheets, my body slick with sweat, heart hammering against my ribs. The dream clings to me like a second skin, too vivid to shake off.
I was in his greenhouse again, but this time, something was different. Damien stood surrounded by his deadly collection, a knife gleaming in his hand. Blood stained his pristine white shirt . . . but whose blood?
The rational part of me screamed to run, to get as far away as possible. But instead, I walked toward him, drawn by something darker than fear pulsing inside me. My feet moved of their own accord, each step bringing me closer to what should have terrified me but somehow didn’t.
His eyes tracked my approach like a hungry predator. The knife glinted in the greenhouse light, but I couldn’t look away from his face.
“Eve,” he said, my name a command on his lips. “Come here.”
And I obeyed without hesitation, closing the distance between us until I stood just inches away, feeling heat radiating from his body. When he wrapped his free arm around my waist, I didn’t resist. The cold metal of the blade pressed against my spine as he pulled me flush against him like a terrifying, thrilling reminder of the danger I was willingly embracing.
And then . . . his mouth claimed mine in a searing kiss that tasted of danger and desire, metallic and sweet all at once. I melted into him, my fingers tangling in his hair, pulling him closer despite the blade at my back. I wanted more. I wanted all of him, even the darkness . . . especially the darkness.
I sit up in bed, pushing sweat-dampened hair from my face as I try to slow my breathing. My body throbs with need, the space between my thighs slick and aching from a fantasy that should terrify rather than arouse me. I press the heels of my hands against my eyes, trying to block out the lingering images, but they persist.
Damien’s hands on my body, his voice in my ear, the threat and promise intertwined in his touch.
What kind of woman dreams of a predator and wakes up wanting him? What does that say about me?
I fall back against my pillows, staring at the ceiling as disturbing realizations crystallize in the darkness. It wasn’t just Damien’s world I was drawn to investigate—it was Damien himself, with all his dangerous edges and controlled violence. The most frightening part isn’t what I’ve discovered about him, but what I’m discovering about myself: that the darkness in him calls to something hidden deep within me—something I’ve never acknowledged until now.
Something that wants to be consumed by his shadows.