12. Damien
Chapter 12
Damien
MINUTES EARLIER . . .
T he moment I step out of the warehouse into the rain-soaked alley, I catch it: a scent that doesn’t belong. Jasmine and something uniquely feminine beneath the heavier notes of rain and urban decay. Eve’s scent. I’d recognize it anywhere after memorizing it during those brief moments her body was pressed against mine.
She’s been here.
The realization hits me with a force that momentarily stuns me, followed by a surge of white-hot fury that threatens to consume my carefully constructed control.
“Sir?” Foster approaches, weapon drawn, scanning the shadows. “Cops?”
“No.” My voice is too calm, too measured, belying the storm raging inside me. “It’s Eve.”
Foster’s expression shifts from alert readiness to concern. “Miss Thorne? Here?” He glances toward the warehouse, understanding dawning in his eyes. “She saw.”
“Yes.” The single word carries the weight of complications, of plans unraveling, of a woman who continues to defy my expectations and calculations.
“We need to find her,” Foster says, already moving toward the fire escape where I spotted movement. “If she reports this?—”
“She won’t.” I catch his arm, stopping him. “I’ll handle Eve. Take care of our victim.” I nod toward the warehouse where the man still sits bound and bleeding—someone who foolishly believed he could siphon funds from my organization without consequences.
Foster hesitates. “Sir, with all due respect, if she witnessed the interrogation?—”
“I said I’ll handle it.” The edge in my voice silences him immediately. “Send Johnson and Taylor to track her. Do not engage. Just confirm her location.”
He nods, knowing better than to argue. “When you say take care of the victim , sir?”
“Finish it. Clean and efficient.” I’m already moving away, following the faint trail of Eve’s presence like a predator locked onto prey. “No one follows me. This is personal.”
Rain pelts down harder now, plastering my shirt to my skin, washing away the blood spatter from the interrogation. I barely notice the discomfort, my mind entirely focused on Eve. The recklessness of her actions tonight both infuriates and intrigues me. I’d shown her just enough of my world to frighten any rational person away. Instead, she dove in deeper.
I move through the labyrinthine alleys with practiced ease, scanning for any sign of her passage: a fresh scuff on a dumpster or a puddle disturbed minutes rather than hours ago. She’s panicked, running blind in unfamiliar territory. Easy to track for someone who knows these shadows as intimately as I do.
My phone vibrates in my pocket. Foster.
“He’s been handled,” he confirms.
“Good.” I end the call, changing direction to intercept her likely route.
As I move through the rain-drenched alley, my fury begins to crystallize into something colder, more focused. Eve Thorne continues to be an unpredictable variable in my world. For eight years, I’ve watched her from a distance, content with that arrangement. Now, in the span of weeks, she’s upended everything, pushing into spaces where she doesn’t belong, challenging boundaries I’d established to protect both of us.
A movement catches my eye: a figure darting between buildings ahead. I quicken my pace, rain streaming down my face as lightning illuminates the scene in stark flashes. There she is, running through the maze of alleys, glancing over her shoulder with obvious panic.
I cut through a side passage, positioning myself to intercept her. When she rounds the corner, I step directly into her path, watching her skid to a halt, eyes wide with recognition and fear.
“Eve,” I say, her name somehow both a caress and a threat in my mouth. I shake my head. “What an unexpected surprise.”
She backs away, searching for an escape, but there’s nowhere to run. Behind her, two of my men have blocked the alley. She’s trapped between them, caught like an animal in a snare of her own making.
“Damien,” she manages, her voice surprisingly steady despite the terror coursing through her. “Fancy meeting you here.”
A smile curves my lips, devoid of humor. “Indeed. It seems we have quite a lot to discuss.”
I motion to my men to retreat. They disappear silently, knowing better than to witness what comes next. I grab Eve’s arm with more force than necessary, pulling her toward me.
“I think it’s best we go inside for your punishment,” I grit the words out more harshly than I’d intended, but it does the trick when fear flashes across her face.
“Let go of me!” she hisses, struggling against my grip.
“Not a fucking chance,” I growl, dragging her back toward the warehouse. “You’ve seen far too much tonight to just walk away.”
The rain continues to pour as I force her through a side entrance, her clothing as soaked as mine, her body shaking with either cold or fear. Perhaps both. The warehouse interior is dimly lit, and the team is already clearing the evidence of our earlier activities.
“Everyone out,” I command, my voice echoing through the cavernous space. The men freeze momentarily then move with practiced efficiency, disappearing without question or hesitation.
I pull Eve deeper into the warehouse, toward a small office at the back, my fingers digging into her arm with enough force to bruise. She stumbles beside me, trying to match my pace, her earlier bravado rapidly fading.
“You have no idea what you’ve done,” I say through clenched teeth as I shove open the office door. With a rough push, I send her stumbling into the room, watching as she catches herself against a metal desk. “No fucking idea.”
I slam the door behind us, turning the lock with a decisive click. The sound is final—condemning. Whatever happens in this room stays between us.
Eve straightens, her back against the desk, watching me with those intelligent eyes that see too much. Water drips from both of us, forming puddles on the concrete floor. In the harsh fluorescent light, I know what she sees: my white shirt translucent and stained with blood, my expression cold with barely controlled rage.
“What were you thinking, following me here?” My voice is dangerously quiet as I move toward her. “Do you have any concept of how monumentally stupid that was?”
“I needed to see?—”
“You needed to get yourself killed?” I slam my hand against the desk beside her, making her flinch. “You could have been followed. You could have compromised the entire operation. Do you understand what would have happened if someone other than me had found you watching us?”
Her chin lifts in defiance despite her obvious fear. “I was careful.”
A harsh laugh escapes me. “Careful? I spotted you within minutes. If I could sense your presence, others could have as well. If Foster had found you instead of me, you’d be in that chair right now.” I nod toward the metal chair in the center of the room, the implications clear.
“But he didn’t,” she counters, her voice steady despite the slight tremble in her hands. “You did.”
“Yes, I did.” I step closer—close enough to feel the heat radiating from her body despite her wet clothes. “Because I know your scent, Eve. I would recognize it anywhere.”
Confusion flickers across her face. “My scent?”
“Jasmine. Vanilla. Something uniquely you.” I tug her forward, running my nose up her neck with a deep inhale. “I caught it the moment I stepped outside. I knew you were there without seeing you.”
She swallows hard, processing this information and likely cataloging it alongside everything else she’s learned about me. “You’re telling me you smelled me? That’s how you knew?”
“I’m telling you that I’m aware of you on a level you can’t comprehend,” I growl, moving closer still. “And right now, I’m trying to decide what to do with you after the risk you’ve taken. The danger you’ve put yourself in. The exposure you’ve created.”
Her eyes drop to my shirt—to the blood visible through the wet fabric. “I saw what you did to that man.”
“No, you didn’t,” I correct her. “You saw a fraction of what I’m capable of. A glimpse of what happens to people who cross me. What should happen to you right now.”
Instead of cowering, she meets my gaze directly. “Then why am I still breathing, Damien? If I’m such a liability, why drag me in here instead of disposing of me in that alley?”
The question hits harder than she knows. It’s the same one I’ve been asking myself since I caught her scent. The sensible course of action—the one I would take with anyone else—would be immediate elimination. She’s seen too much, knows too much, represents too great a risk.
Yet here she stands, alive and defiant, because I cannot bring myself to harm her.
“You know why,” I say, my voice dropping lower. “You’ve known since the moment we met.”
Her breath catches, pupils dilating despite her attempt to maintain composure. “You want me.”
“I want you,” I confirm, stepping even closer, forcing her back against the desk. “I’ve wanted you since the first time I saw you. That want has become an obsession I can no longer control. But it’s more than that, Eve, and you’re playing with fucking fire by following me.”
“I wouldn’t have to if you would just tell me what all this is—what it means!” she shouts back at me, gesturing wildly. “You keep taunting me with information knowing that I’m going to keep digging, and then you do this.”
“This,” I shout, “is protecting you! You have no idea the shit you’re dealing with, Eve, and you need to learn some goddamn obedience or you’re going to get yourself killed.”
“Obedience?” She rolls her eyes and I dart my hand out to grasp her throat.
“Yes. You’re behaving like a reckless brat, and if I have to burn this fucking city to the ground to protect you, I will, but you’re testing my fucking limits with this bullshit!” I squeeze her throat so tightly, she reaches up to grab at my fingers.
Lightning flashes outside, briefly illuminating the small office through its single grimy window. In that flash of light, I see something shift in Eve’s expression—fear giving way to something darker, more primal. Her pulse visibly quickens at the base of her throat.
“Fuck.” I release her, stepping back. She stumbles slightly, taking in a long, deep breath. She stares at me, her eyes locked on mine.
“You’re covered in another man’s blood,” she says, her voice barely above a whisper. “You just tortured someone. I should be terrified.”
“But you’re not.” I recognize the look in her eyes now—it’s hunger, mirroring my own. “You’re excited.”
She doesn’t deny it—doesn’t try to maintain the pretense of moral outrage. Instead, she asks, “What are you going to do about it?”
The question ignites something in me—something I’ve kept leashed since I first recognized her in the forest preserve. Without warning, I grab her throat, pushing her back onto the desk with enough force to scatter the few items on its surface.
“I’m going to make sure you understand exactly what happens when you play with fire,” I growl, my face inches from hers, my hand tight enough around her throat to restrict her breathing without cutting it off completely. “You want to see the monster? Here he is.”
Her hands come up to grip my wrist—not to pull me away this time, but to steady herself as her hips shift beneath me. “Show me.”
“Don’t ask for things you aren’t prepared to take.”
The invitation shatters the last of my restraint. My mouth crashes down on hers, the kiss nothing like our previous encounters—this is raw, violent, punishing. Her lips part immediately, her tongue meeting mine with equal fervor. I taste blood—hers or mine, I’m not sure—and the metallic tang only fuels the hunger burning through me.
My free hand tears at her clothing, buttons flying as I rip her blouse open. Her skin is damp from the rain, pale in the dim light, perfect beneath my bloodstained fingers. I mark her with every touch, claiming territory I’ve coveted for eight years.
“Is this what you want?” I demand against her mouth. “To be taken by the monster you’ve been hunting?”
“Yes,” she gasps, arching into my touch as I roughly palm her breast. “God, yes.”
I release her throat to grab her hair instead, yanking her head back to expose the delicate column of her neck. My teeth scrape against her pulse point, not gentle, not careful. She moans, the sound vibrating against my lips.
“You have no idea what you’re asking for,” I warn, even as I lift her roughly, turning to slam her against the wall instead of the desk. Her legs wrap around my waist instinctively, locking at the ankles as I press the hard evidence of my desire against her core.
“Then show me,” she challenges, nails digging into my shoulders through my wet shirt. “Show me what you’ve been holding back.”
I rip her jeans open, shoving them down her hips along with her underwear, not bothering with niceties or gentle seduction. This isn’t about pleasure. It’s about claiming what’s mine . . . about punishment . . . about finally taking what I’ve watched from a distance for too long.
My fingers find her already wet, ready for me despite—or perhaps because of—the violence of our encounter. “Look at you,” I murmur against her neck, biting down hard enough to leave a mark. “Soaked for a killer.”
“For you,” she corrects, her hands fumbling with my belt. “Only you.”
The admission pushes me further past control. I bat her hands away, opening my trousers myself, freeing my painfully hard cock. Her eyes widen slightly at the size, but there’s no fear in her expression—only hunger, anticipation, and a need that matches my own.
“Last chance to run,” I warn, positioning myself at her entrance, still pinning her against the wall. “I won’t be gentle. I won’t hold back. I will fuck you like I own you, because after this, I do.”
Her answer is to wrap her arms around my neck, pulling me closer. “I’m not running.”
“You should be, you stupid girl.”
With one brutal thrust, I bury myself inside her. She gasps, her back arching against the wall as I fill her completely. For a moment, I remain still, savoring the sensation of being inside her after wanting her for so long. She’s tight, hot, perfect around me.
“Damien,” she whispers, the sound of my name on her lips driving me past the point of restraint.
I begin to move, setting a punishing rhythm that has her gasping with each thrust. Her nails dig deeper into my shoulders, drawing blood that mingles with the stains already there. The pain only spurs me on, my hands gripping her hips hard enough to bruise as I drive into her again and again.
“This is what you wanted?” I growl against her ear. “Hmm? To be brutalized by me? Punished for your stupid fucking actions?”
“Yes,” she moans, her head falling back against the wall, exposing the marks I’ve already left on her throat. “Don’t stop.”
“I wouldn’t even if you begged me to. You deserve this, Eve.” I tilt my hips, slamming into her hard and deep until she cries out. “You deserve every painful fucking stroke of my cock.”
I have no intention of stopping. I take her with a ferocity I’ve never shown another lover—all the obsession and desire of eight years channeled into each punishing thrust. The wall rattles with the force of our fucking, the sound of flesh against flesh reverberating in the small office.
Her first climax catches me by surprise, her body suddenly tightening around me, her mouth opening in a silent scream as pleasure overwhelms her. The sight of her coming undone beneath my hands, because of my violence rather than despite it, pushes me dangerously close to my own edge.
I slow slightly, not ready for this to end, not ready to relinquish the control I’ve finally claimed. Pulling back, I withdraw from her body, ignoring her whimper of protest as I turn her roughly, bending her over the desk.
“I’m not done with you yet,” I tell her, positioning myself behind her, one hand pressing between her shoulder blades to keep her pinned against the cold metal. “Not even close.”
I enter her again from behind, the new angle allowing me to drive even deeper. She cries out, fingers scrambling for anything to grasp on the smooth surface of the desk. I reach around to grab her throat again, pulling her upper body back against my chest as I continue to thrust into her.
“Is this rough enough for you?” I demand, tightening my grip on her throat. “Or do you need more? Need me to show you exactly what happens when you push a man like me past his limits?”
“More,” she gasps, reaching back to tangle her fingers in my hair. “I can take it.”
The challenge ignites something even darker within me.
“You don’t know what you’re asking for, baby. I’m going to wreck you.”
I release her throat to grab her hair instead, yanking her head back as my other hand circles around to find her clit. I stroke her in time with my thrusts, feeling her body begin to tremble again with approaching release.
“Come for me again,” I command, my voice harsh with exertion and need. “Come around my cock, Eve. Show me you’re mine.”
Her second orgasm is more powerful than the first, her entire body shaking as she cries out my name. The sensation of her muscles clenching around me, combined with the sound of my name on her lips, shatters the last of my control. I drive into her one final time, holding her hips punishingly tight as I empty myself inside her.
For several long moments, we remain frozen in that position, my body covering hers against the desk, both of us panting with exertion. Rain continues to pound against the small window, providing rhythmic accompaniment to our slowing heartbeats.
Slowly, carefully, I withdraw from her body, giving her space to straighten. She turns to face me, her expression unreadable as she takes in the aftermath of what we’ve done. Her clothing is torn, her skin marked with evidence of my passion, her hair wild from my grip.
“You’re bleeding,” she says, reaching up to touch my lip, where her teeth caught me earlier.
“So are you,” I respond, noting the marks I’ve left on her pale skin: bruises beginning to form on her throat, her hips, her wrists.
Instead of regret or shame, I see something else in her eyes. She reaches for my shirt, fingers working at the remaining buttons. “I want to see you.”
I allow it, watching as she peels the wet fabric away from my skin. Her breath catches as she fully exposes my chest, her eyes fixing on the tattoo inked over my heart. Her name, in elegant script, permanently marked into my flesh.
“Eve,” she reads aloud, fingers tracing the letters with stunned incredulity. “My name. On your chest. Over your heart.”
I don’t stop her exploration—don’t try to hide the evidence of my obsession. “Yes.”
“Why?” she asks, looking up at me, confusion mingling with the lingering desire in her eyes. “When did you?—”
“Eight years ago,” I tell her, the truth easier to admit now that I’ve claimed her completely. “Not long after your parents’ funeral.”
She freezes with her hand still pressed against my chest, directly over her name. “My parents’ funeral? You were there?”
“I’ve been watching you for eight years, Eve,” I confess, reaching up to tuck a strand of damp hair behind her ear. “Long before you knew I existed.”
Confusion clouds her expression, the implications of my words slowly registering. “Eight years? But why? How? I don’t understand.”
“That,” I say, pulling away slightly to begin reassembling my appearance, “is a much longer conversation. One we should have somewhere more private than a warehouse where I just interrogated and killed a man.”
She follows my lead, gathering her torn clothing as best she can, wincing slightly as she moves. I’ve been rough with her—rougher than I intended—though clearly not rougher than she wanted. The evidence of our encounter is written on both our bodies.
“You can’t just drop something like that and expect me to wait for answers,” she protests, struggling to close her ruined blouse. “Eight years, Damien. You’ve been watching me for eight years. Why?”
I retrieve my phone, typing a quick message to Foster to bring the car around. “Because you fascinated me,” I tell her, offering a partial truth. “Because I saw something in you that day that I recognized. Something that called to the darkness in me.”
She absorbs this, still clearly unsatisfied with the explanation but recognizing that this isn’t the place for the full truth. “Where are we going?”
“Eden,” I answer, guiding her toward the door. “Where we can talk properly. Where I can show you everything you want to know about me—about us—with no distractions.”
She hesitates only briefly before nodding. “Everything? The full truth?”
“The complete truth,” I promise, knowing that once she hears it, everything between us will change yet again. “About your parents. About Victor Messini. About why I’ve been watching you all these years.”
Recognition flashes in her eyes at the mention of her parents . . . questions forming that I’m not yet ready to answer. But I will. Tonight, I will give her everything she demands, lay my entire history at her feet, and watch as she makes the final choice that will bind us together or tear us apart forever.
As we leave the warehouse, with the rain still falling around us, I’m acutely aware that we’re crossing a threshold from which there can be no return. The obsession that began years ago, the manipulation that brought her into my orbit, the desire that culminated in our violent fucking—all of it leads to this moment of truth.
And for the first time in decades, I cannot calculate the outcome.