11. Eve
Chapter 11
Eve
T he door to my apartment clicks shut behind me, the sound of the lock engaging strangely final. I lean against it, exhaling a breath I didn’t realize I was holding. Home. I’m home. I see the same furniture, the same walls, the same small space I’ve occupied for years, but all of it is somehow foreign now.
My fingers drift up to touch my lips, still feeling the ghost of Damien’s kiss from last night. I can still feel the impossible size of his hard length pressing against my clit as I shifted my hips against him. I wanted to feel him inside me the same way his fingers were: deep and thick.
But the image of him in the shower is forever burned into my memory. I had wanted to join him so badly, and when he looked up, saw me, and continued, I panicked.
“Oh my God,” I gasp, finally realizing just how insane the last twenty-four hours have been. A second later, my smile fades and I realize just how much of a situation I’ve gotten myself into. I’m in way over my head here; this isn’t just some sexy game of hard-to-get . . . this is a deadly situation that could easily destroy my life. But even with that harsh reality sinking in, my mind cannot go anywhere else but in the direction of how Damien commanded my body during our brief interaction.
I replay the intensity of it: the way his hand cradled the back of my neck, how his body felt pressed against mine—solid, powerful, consuming. For those moments, I’d forgotten everything else: Kurt, the gun, the blood. I’d lost myself in the sensation of being wanted by a man like him.
But now, in the harsh light of morning, reality comes crashing back. I close my eyes, but that only makes the images more vivid: Kurt’s body jerking with each impact. The blood spreading across his shirt. The moment his eyes went vacant. The sound of those muffled shots.
I killed a man . . . or at least fired the first shot.
My knees weaken, and I slide down the door until I’m sitting on the floor, my back still pressed against the solid wood. I wrap my arms around myself, trying to contain the tremors that suddenly rack my body.
What have I become? What am I becoming?
The questions swirl in my head without answers. Yesterday, I was an obituary writer with dreams of real journalism. Today, I’m a woman who has killed, who has witnessed an execution, who has been kissed by the man who pulled the trigger. A man who leads a shadow organization. A man who showed me his throne.
I stand and walk to my desk, attempting to try and work from home. But after several long minutes, I’m still staring at the blinking cursor.
Mrs. Eleanor Winters, beloved grandmother of six, passed peacefully on Tuesday surrounded by family . . .
My fingers hover over the keys, but the words won’t come.
Instead, I see Kurt’s face—the moment of shock as the bullet tore through him. I feel the weight of the gun in my hand, the recoil as I pulled the trigger. I taste the metallic tang of fear and exhilaration that flooded my mouth.
I try again.
Mrs. Eleanor Winters, whose charity work spanned five decades . . .
But my mind drifts to the way Damien moved in that alley: precise, controlled, deadly. The way he looked at Kurt like he was nothing more than a problem to solve. The way my body responded to that casual display of power.
What would Eleanor Winters’ enemies say about her, if they could speak freely? What secrets did she take to her grave? What justice went undelivered in her ninety-three years?
I slam my laptop closed, my breath coming too fast. What’s happening to me? Since when do I look at a grandmother’s obituary and wonder about vengeance?
Since I pulled that trigger. Since I watched a man die and felt . . . relieved. Vindicated. Powerful.
I press my palms against my eyes until I see stars. This isn’t me. This can’t be me. But even as I think it, a voice whispers from some dark corner of my mind: But what if it is? What if this is who you’ve always been, beneath the polite fictions and social constraints? What if Damien didn’t create this in you, but rather, he just recognized what was already there?
My phone buzzes in my purse, startling me from my spiraling thoughts. I fumble for it, welcoming the distraction. Four missed calls from Brian. Three text messages asking where I am. And suddenly, I remember.
“Shit,” I whisper, the memory of our conversation rushing back.
I was supposed to meet Brian today to show him the evidence I’d gathered on Damien. Evidence I no longer have—or at least, evidence I’m no longer willing to share.
“Shit, shit, shit.”
My heart races as I stare at the screen. What am I going to tell him? That I’ve changed my mind? That the story isn’t viable? That I’ve fallen in with the very man I was investigating?
None of those options seem particularly appealing, especially since Brian was skeptical about my investigation from the start. Coming back empty-handed will only confirm his assumption that I was chasing shadows.
I can’t face that conversation today. Not when I can still smell gunpowder and blood if I breathe too deeply. Not when my lips still tingle from Damien’s kiss.
With shaking fingers, I type out a text:
Me: Brian, I’ve come down with a terrible flu. High fever, can’t stop throwing up. Won’t be in today. Can we postpone our meeting until later this week when I’m back on my feet?
I send it before I can overthink things, watching the message bubble whoosh away. It’s not my most convincing lie, but it buys me time. Time to figure out what story I’m going to tell Brian. Time to decide what I’m going to do about Damien and what I now know about The Shadows.
My phone buzzes with a text almost immediately:
Brian: Feel better. We’ll talk Thursday.
Relief washes over me, followed by a fresh wave of anxiety. Thursday. Three days to come up with a plausible explanation for why I’m abandoning what I’d presented as the biggest story of my career. Three days to decide what I’m going to do about the fact that I’m now complicit in not one but two deaths.
I push myself up from the floor, moving to the kitchen on autopilot. Coffee. I need coffee. And a shower. And maybe to burn these clothes that still feel contaminated despite being freshly laundered at Damien’s penthouse.
As water heats for coffee, I catch my reflection in the microwave door. I look the same. Same dark hair, same eyes, same features. But something behind my eyes has changed—a hardness that wasn’t there before, and a knowledge that can’t be unlearned.
In killing Kurt, I crossed a line I never thought I’d approach, let alone step over. In kissing Damien, I crossed another.
And I’m not sure which terrifies me more: that I might regret these steps . . . or that I won’t.
* * *
T he sheets tangle around my legs as I thrash in half-sleep, caught in dreams that blur the line between nightmare and forbidden fantasy. Damien’s face hovers above mine, his expression shifting between cruelty and desire, his hands everywhere at once—on my throat, between my thighs, tangled in my hair.
“I will fuck you like I own you, because after this, I do.”
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 no what-ifs about 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.
My gaze falls on the gun box still sitting on my coffee table where I left it—the weapon that links me to murder, and binds me to Damien through shared violence. I should be horrified by it, should want it gone from my home, my life. Instead, I find myself reaching for it.
A plan begins to form in my mind, reckless and potentially suicidal, but impossible to dismiss once it takes root. If I want to understand who Damien Knox truly is, and what The Shadows actually entails, I need to witness it firsthand.
I’ll follow him tonight.
The thought should terrify me more than it does. I’m considering tailing a man who kills with clinical precision, who has resources and power beyond anything I can imagine. But the journalist in me won’t back down, and something darker, something I’m not ready to fully acknowledge, pushes me forward.
I spend the day preparing—charging my camera, downloading a police scanner app to my phone, laying out dark clothes that won’t attract attention. I should be exhausted after my sleepless night, but adrenaline keeps me alert, focused.
As evening approaches, I shower and dress in black jeans, a dark sweater, and comfortable boots. I tie my hair back, the practical motions helping to steady my nerves. I tuck the gun into my purse, telling myself it’s just for protection, though the weight of it feels like a commitment to something I don’t fully understand.
I force myself to eat a small meal, knowing I’ll need my strength, then check the time: 7:30 p.m. According to my research, Damien has a board meeting scheduled until 8. If I position myself outside Knox Tower now, I should be able to follow him when he leaves.
The rational part of my brain screams at me to stop, to reconsider, to call that detective who warned me away from this investigation. But rationality abandoned me the moment I pulled that trigger in the alley. Now I’m operating on something more primal—a need to know the truth, no matter how dark it might be.
I grab my camera, my phone, and my keys, checking my appearance one last time in the mirror. The woman staring back at me looks different somehow—her eyes harder, her expression more determined. I barely recognize myself.
Outside, the night air is crisp with an early autumn chill. I hail a cab, giving the driver an address a block away from Knox Tower. My heart pounds in my chest as we approach the gleaming skyscraper, its upper floors illuminated against the night sky like a beacon of power and wealth.
“This is fine,” I tell the driver, handing over cash and exiting half a block before we reach my stated destination.
I find a shadowy spot across from the underground parking garage where Damien’s Bentley will likely emerge. The waiting is the hardest part, and my mind races with second thoughts and scenarios where this could go terribly wrong. What if he catches me? What if whatever I witness is so horrific, I can’t handle it?
What if I discover the darkest parts of Damien Knox and find myself drawn to them even more?
I push the thought away, focusing on my breath, on the steady flow of late-night traffic, on anything but the growing fear mixed with anticipation in my gut.
At 8:37 p.m., the sleek black Bentley emerges from the garage. I catch a glimpse of his driver, but the back windows are tinted. I wait until they’re a block away before flagging down another cab, instructing the driver to follow the Bentley at a distance.
“You want me to follow that car? Like in the movies?” The driver gives me a skeptical look.
“Just do it,” I say, pulling out a hundred-dollar bill. “And I’ll double this if you don’t ask questions.”
He takes the money with a shrug, pulling into traffic behind the Bentley. “Lady, your business is your business.”
We follow them through downtown Chicago, maintaining enough distance to avoid suspicion. My palms grow sweaty as we weave through the city streets, each turn taking us further from the glittering skyscrapers and deeper into neighborhoods where the lights grow dimmer and the buildings more decrepit.
At one point, we hit a red light just as the Bentley makes a sharp right turn. I curse under my breath, urging the driver to hurry when the light changes. By the time we make the turn, the sleek black car is nowhere in sight.
“Faster!” I urge, desperately scanning the street.
“I can’t run lights, lady,” the driver protests, but speeds up slightly.
Just when I think we’ve lost them, I spot the distinctive taillights turning down a side street. Relief washes over me, quickly followed by renewed tension. We’re heading into an industrial area near the river, where warehouses loom on either side like silent sentinels.
The first drops of rain begin to fall, speckling the windshield. Within moments, it turns into a steady downpour—the kind of heavy autumn rain that transforms the city into a gothic nightmare of gleaming wet pavement and deep shadows. The rhythmic swish of the wipers matches my accelerating heartbeat.
“Pull over,” I say as the Bentley slows in front of a warehouse about a block ahead of us. “Wait here. I’ll be back.”
“In this neighborhood?” The driver looks wary. “With this weather?”
I hand him another hundred. “Twenty minutes, tops.”
He pockets the money with a shrug. “It’s your funeral.”
The words send a chill down my spine as I step into the rain. It soaks through my clothes almost instantly, plastering my hair to my scalp. I stick to the shadows, moving along building edges, grateful for the storm that’s providing both cover and an excuse for my head-down, hurried posture.
The Bentley has stopped outside a nondescript warehouse. Its exterior may be weathered, but its sophisticated security cameras are visible if you know what to look for. I duck behind a dumpster across the street, water pooling around my boots as I watch Damien emerge from the car.
Even in the downpour, he looks impeccable in his tailored suit, not bothering with an umbrella as he strides purposefully toward the entrance. Foster follows, along with another man I don’t recognize. They speak briefly before Foster punches a code into a keypad, and the door slides open to admit them.
I wait until they’re inside before darting across the street, my footsteps muffled by the rain. The warehouse looms above me, water streaming down its grimy brick exterior like tears. There are no windows at ground level, but I spot a row of them along the upper floor, most boarded up or broken.
At the back of the building, I find a rusty fire escape. The bottom ladder is pulled up, but a dumpster positioned nearby creates a makeshift step. I climb onto it, wincing at the squelching sound my waterlogged boots make against the metal lid.
With a deep breath, I jump for the ladder, grabbing the bottom rung and pulling myself up. The metal is slick with rain, and my hands slip as I haul myself higher, one rung at a time. By the time I reach the first landing, my arms are trembling with exertion.
I pause, catching my breath, with rain streaming down my face. Through a gap between buildings, I can see the cab still waiting where I left it, its headlights dim yellow eyes in the darkness. I should go back. Every instinct for self-preservation screams at me to leave now, before I’m discovered.
Instead, I continue climbing, driven by a compulsion I can’t explain even to myself. The journalist in me demands truth, but there’s something darker feeding my determination: a need to understand what kind of man possesses such control in one moment and such lethal precision in the next.
I reach a broken window, glass jagged around the edges like teeth. Through it, I can see a cavernous space below: the interior of the warehouse, which is mostly dark, except for a pool of harsh light in the center. I wipe rain from my eyes, leaning closer for a better view.
The broken window is too small for me to climb through, but large enough to provide a clear view of the warehouse floor. I kneel on the wet metal platform, ignoring the water soaking through my jeans as I peer inside. Rain continues to drum on the fire escape, the rhythmic patter providing cover for any small sounds I might make.
Below, in the harsh circle of light, a man sits bound to a metal chair, his head slumped forward. I can’t see his face, only that his clothes are disheveled, his posture that of someone who understands exactly how much trouble he’s in. Around him, the warehouse stretches in shadowy emptiness, creating a makeshift arena for whatever is about to unfold.
Movement catches my eye as Damien steps into the light. Foster and the third man remain just beyond its perimeter. Gone is the polished CEO with his careful charm. This Damien moves with predatory grace, circling the bound man with unhurried confidence.
Through the broken window, I see Damien roll up the sleeves of his white shirt with methodical care, exposing muscled forearms as he approaches the bound man. On a small metal table beside him lies an array of implements that makes my stomach turn: scalpels arranged by size, curved hooks, and things I can’t even name but whose purpose is unmistakable.
“Do you understand the difference between pain and suffering?” Damien asks conversationally, selecting a thin blade from the collection. He holds it up to the light, examining the edge with the appreciation of an art collector. “Pain is merely neurological. Suffering . . .” He steps closer to the man, whose muffled pleas slip past his gag. “Suffering is psychological. It requires anticipation.”
I press closer to the window, torn between horror and morbid fascination. This is what I came to see: the man behind the mask, the reality of The Shadows’ justice. Yet now that I’m witnessing it, I’m not sure I’m prepared for the truth.
He leans down to the man’s ear, whispering something I can’t hear that makes the color drain from the man’s face. Whatever Damien has said turns the man’s struggle frantic, his eyes widening with pure terror.
“The femoral nerve cluster here,” Damien explains to Foster, his tone educational as he presses the blade against a specific spot on the man’s inner thigh, “produces pain that the brain can’t properly process. The body simply short-circuits.”
When he applies pressure, the man’s scream is barely contained by the gag, his body arching against the restraints.
Damien works with precise, almost elegant movements. There’s no hesitation, no fumbling. Each cut, each application of pressure, is delivered with the confidence of someone who has honed this craft over years.
A spray of blood catches his cheek, and he pauses, wiping it away with his thumb. With an absent, thoughtful expression, he brings it to his lips, tasting it before returning to his work.
“Now,” Damien says, his voice dropping to a silken whisper as he selects another implement, “let’s try the question again.”
I should leave now. I’ve confirmed what I suspected: that Damien Knox engages in activities far removed from his public persona. I have enough to feed my article and continue my investigation from a safer distance. But I remain frozen in place, unable to tear my eyes away as Damien opens the case and removes something that gleams in the harsh light.
The man in the chair begins to thrash against his restraints, his panic visible even from my distant vantage point. Damien places a hand on his shoulder, a gesture almost gentle if not for the context. Then he leans down, bringing his face close to the man’s ear, speaking words I can’t hear but whose effect is immediate—the man goes completely still, as if paralyzed by whatever Damien has promised him.
What follows is methodical, precise, and deeply disturbing. He works with surgical focus, occasionally pausing to ask questions that the man answers with increasing desperation.
I press a hand to my mouth, fighting the urge to be sick. This isn’t justice—it’s torture, pure and simple. Yet I can’t deny the terrifying competence with which Damien conducts this interrogation, or the fact that despite my horror, I haven’t looked away.
The man slumps forward in the chair, blood dripping from his mouth and neck onto the concrete floor. Damien circles him slowly, hands clasped behind his back, expression neutral as he studies the steady progression of tears mixing with blood.
“Fascinating,” he murmurs, leaning closer to observe the man’s trembling. “The human body’s stress response varies so dramatically between subjects.”
He notes the pattern of bruising with clinical interest, head tilted slightly as if examining a moderately interesting painting. There’s no anger in his movements, just morbid curiosity.
“The capillaries beneath the skin rupture in a predictable pattern,” he explains to Foster, voice calm and instructional. “But the psychological response is where the real variation occurs. Some men beg immediately. Others maintain dignity until the nerve endings are compromised.”
He crouches before the sobbing man, studying his face with detached fascination. “Which kind are you, I wonder?”
There’s something more disturbing in this clinical detachment than there would be in rage or cruelty. But this complete disconnection from the humanity of his victim—as if he’s observing an insect under glass rather than a breaking human being—is terrifying.
After what feels like hours but is probably only minutes, Damien straightens, apparently satisfied with whatever information he’s extracted. He steps back, wiping his hands on a cloth Foster provides. The man in the chair slumps forward, still barely conscious, his breathing labored.
Damien turns to speak to his companions, with his back to me now. I shift slightly, trying to see his face, to read his expression after what he’s just done. My foot slips on the wet metal, making a small scraping sound that seems deafening in the quiet night since the rain has abated for the moment.
Below, Damien goes completely still. Then, with deliberate slowness, he turns his head, looking up toward the broken window—toward me. Even in the dim light, I can see the change that comes over him: the predator sensing prey.
I duck back, my heart hammering in my chest.
Shit! Did he see me?
I don’t wait to find out. I scramble to my feet, abandoning stealth for speed as I hurry down the fire escape, metal clanging beneath my frantic movements.
Behind me, I hear a commotion from inside the warehouse—voices, footsteps, a door slamming open. They’re coming after me. I miss a step in my haste, nearly falling before catching myself on the railing. Sharp pain shoots through my wrist at the impact.
No time to worry about it now. I jump the last few feet to the ground, landing hard in a puddle that splashes icy water up my legs. Which way? The cab is around the front, but that would mean passing by the main entrance, where they’ll emerge any second. I turn instead toward the back alley—hoping to circle around to the street beyond—when through the rain, I glimpse the cab’s taillights disappearing around the corner.
“Shit!” My ride is gone, abandoning me in this industrial wasteland. I am truly alone.
I slip between two dumpsters, pressing myself against the wet brick wall as I hear the fire door burst open, followed by heavy footsteps splashing through puddles. Foster’s voice cuts through the now-pouring rain: “East side, check the perimeter. Could be the cops.”
I hold my breath, willing my racing heart to quiet. The footsteps move away, searching in the wrong direction. I wait a few seconds longer, then risk darting across the open space to the next building.
I almost make it.
“There!” The shout comes from behind me, followed by the sound of running feet.
I break into a sprint, adrenaline flooding my system. The alley seems endless, shadows playing tricks on my vision as I desperately search for an exit. My lungs burn, and my wet clothes hamper my movements.
Finally, I spot a gap between buildings—a narrow passage that might lead to the street. I veer toward it, hope surging—only to skid to a halt as a figure emerges from the darkness directly in my path.
Damien Knox stands before me, not even breathing hard despite the chase. Rain streams down his face. His white shirt is now transparent and clinging to his torso, the tattoos on his chest almost visible through the fabric. The rain is coming down even harder now, and it slicks back his hair. His eyes are darker than I’ve ever seen them, focused on me with an intensity that stops my breath.
“Eve,” he says, my name somehow both a caress and a threat in his mouth. He shakes his head. “What an unexpected surprise.”
I back away, searching for escape, but there’s nowhere to run. Behind me, two other men have blocked the alley. I’m trapped between them, caught like an animal in a snare of my own making.
“Damien,” I manage, my voice surprisingly steady despite the terror coursing through me. “Fancy meeting you here.”
A smile curves his lips, devoid of humor. “Indeed. It seems we have quite a lot to discuss.”