13. Eve
Chapter 13
Eve
E den looms before us as Damien’s Bentley glides through wrought iron gates, its Gothic silhouette imposing against the night sky. My body still trembles—not just from the cold rain that soaked through my clothes, but from what I witnessed tonight.
The silent drive from the warehouse has given me too much time to replay those images in my mind: Damien methodically torturing that man, the calculated precision in his movements, the complete lack of emotion in his eyes as he delivered pain.
And then our encounter afterward—his hand around my throat, his body pressing me against the wall, the way he took me with such violent need. My skin still burns where his fingers gripped me, where his teeth marked me.
“We’re home,” Damien says, his voice startlingly gentle compared to the harsh commands he’d issued earlier. The car stops at the grand entrance, and he comes around to my door.
As I step out, my legs nearly buckle beneath me. Damien’s arm is around my waist instantly, supporting me without comment.
“I need answers,” I say as we enter the mansion’s cavernous foyer. “That man tonight—who was he? Why did you?—”
“Patience,” he interrupts, his voice firm. “We need to get cleaned up first. We’re both soaked and filthy.”
I look down at myself, noticing the mud stains on my knees from when I fell in the alley, plus the smears of what might be blood on my hands, though I don’t remember touching anything bloody. My mind flashes to Damien’s white shirt, transparent from the rain and stained with crimson splatters.
“This way.” He guides me through corridors that twist and turn like a labyrinth, his hand never leaving the small of my back.
We reach his bedroom, a massive space with floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the estate grounds. Lightning flashes outside, illuminating his king-sized bed. The room is surprisingly minimal for such a grand house, containing only the essentials, all in shades of black and gray—something I hadn’t noticed the night I slept here.
“You’re shivering,” Damien notes, moving toward a door that presumably leads to a bathroom. “Let me run a shower for you.”
“I want answers,” I insist, my voice stronger than I feel. “I’m not waiting anymore.”
He turns to face me, studying me with those dark, penetrating eyes. “You’ll have them. All of them. But first, we need to take care of you.”
Before I can protest again, he approaches me slowly, like one might approach a frightened animal. His fingers find the remaining buttons of my blouse, working them open with surprising gentleness.
“What are you doing?” I whisper, though I make no move to stop him.
“Taking care of you,” he repeats, his voice low. “Let me do this, Eve.”
The tenderness in his actions seems at complete odds with the man I saw torturing someone just hours ago. His fingers brush against my skin as he slides the wet fabric from my shoulders, and I shiver again—but this time, not from the cold.
As he removes each article of my clothing, his touches are reverent, careful, and nothing like the demanding hands that had gripped me in the warehouse. When I stand before him in just my underwear, his eyes darken but his movements remain slow, controlled.
“You have bruises forming,” he notes, fingers ghosting over marks his mouth left on my collarbone, my shoulder, the curve of my breast. “I was rough with you.”
“I didn’t ask you to stop,” I remind him, my voice barely audible.
Something flashes in his eyes—hunger, possession, something deeper I can’t name. “No, you didn’t.”
He kneels to remove my wet shoes and socks, then rises to slide my underwear down my legs until I stand before him completely naked and exposed. Again, I expect him to pounce—to show the predatory hunger I glimpsed at the warehouse. Instead, he steps back, creating space between us.
“The shower is through there.” He gestures to the bathroom door. “I’ll find you something dry to wear.”
“Aren’t you coming?” The question surprises me as much as it seems to surprise him.
His expression shifts, softens. “If that’s what you want.”
“I want answers,” I remind him. “And I don’t want to be alone right now.”
He nods once. “Then yes, I’m coming.”
The bathroom is as luxurious as the rest of his home; dark marble and stark white linens make it feel like a luxury hotel I could never afford. The shower alone is bigger than my entire bathroom, with multiple shower heads positioned at different heights. Damien turns on the water with a touch to a digital panel, then begins unbuttoning his own shirt.
I watch, transfixed, as he reveals himself. His body is lean and muscled, mapped with scars that tell stories of violence survived. My eyes again catch the tattoo of my name over his heart, and a million questions come racing back, but strangely, I don’t want to ask them in this moment.
“Who was that man tonight?” I ask as Damien steps under the spray of water, extending his hand to me in invitation.
“Someone who betrayed The Shadows,” he answers, helping me under the warm cascade. “He was selling information to rival organizations, and it put our operations at risk.”
“And that’s worth torturing and killing him for?” The water streams down my face and body, washing away the remnants of earlier.
Damien reaches for a bottle of expensive-looking body wash, squeezing some into his palm. “In our world, yes.” His hands create a lather that he applies to my shoulders with careful attention. “Betrayal has consequences. Severe ones.”
His touch is gentle as he washes away the grime of the night, working from my shoulders down my arms, across my collarbones, and over the swell of my breasts. Each caress feels like a form of worship . . . so different from the demanding grip that had bruised my skin just hours before.
“Do you enjoy it?” I ask, watching his face carefully. “The killing, the torture?”
His hands pause momentarily on my skin before continuing their journey down my stomach. “ Enjoy isn’t precisely the right word. I take satisfaction in maintaining order—in delivering consequences that are deserved.” His eyes meet mine, unflinching. “But yes, there is a part of me that finds fulfillment in it. The same part that has kept me alive all these years.”
His honesty should terrify me. Instead, I find myself nodding—something dark and unacknowledged within me responding to his confession.
His mouth finds mine, soft where it had been demanding before. His tongue traces my lower lip, seeking entrance rather than claiming it. When I open to him, his kiss is deep. When his tongue slides into my mouth, my body aches for more.
His hands continue their gentle mapping of my body as he kisses me. They slide over my hips, down my thighs, then back up to cup my breasts. His thumbs brush over my nipples, sending sparks of pleasure through me despite the emotional exhaustion weighing me down.
When his lips break from mine, they travel a path down my neck, finding each mark he left earlier. “I’m not sorry,” he says, tracing the outline of his teeth around my right nipple. He kisses it gently—almost apologetically—his tongue soothing where his teeth had bitten.
“I don’t want you to be.”
“Why aren’t you scared of me, Eve?” he murmurs against my skin, one hand cradling the back of my head as the other slides down between my legs to cup me with possessive gentleness. “You’ve seen what I’m capable of. You know what I do in the shadows.”
“I don’t know,” I admit, my voice catching as his fingers begin to explore me with careful precision. “And that scares me more than you do.”
His eyes find mine again, searching for something I’m not sure I can name. Whatever he sees there must satisfy him, because he nods once, understanding passing between us.
His attention returns to my body, his mouth continuing its journey of exploration and apology. While he says he isn’t sorry, the look in his eyes tells me it pains him in some way to see me bruised at the expense of his pleasure.
“Tell me how to make it up to you.” His teeth drag gently across a collarbone. “Tell me what to do to make you feel cared for.” He slides a single finger inside me—a gentle pace compared to the brutality of earlier.
I don’t know what makes me say it, but I want him on his knees. I want him to submit to me. “Kneel.”
I half-expect him to react with force, but he doesn’t. His eyes search mine—that dark emptiness I’ve seen so many times replaced with something else. Then he kneels before me, his hands gripping my hips to steady me as his tongue replaces his fingers between my legs.
“I could drown in your scent.” His lips dance across my most sensitive parts. “In your sweet taste.” His tongue slips between my lips when he kisses my clit.
I gasp, hands flying to his wet hair as pleasure courses through me. This, too, is different from the urgent, almost punishing pleasure he’d given me earlier. This is deliberate, patient . . . building rather than demanding.
“Damien,” I breathe, my head falling back against the shower wall as his mouth works me with expert precision.
“Such a delicate pussy.” He leans back on his heels to look up at me, his thumb continuing to tease me. “Eve . . .” My name sounds so good in his voice, it almost sends me over the edge. “Look at me.”
I move my head forward, my eyes meeting his. My hands are still tangled in his hair, my breath coming out in pants. He grabs my hips, sliding me over a few inches so my back is against the wall. He bends my leg, placing my foot flat on the marble seat next to me so I’m wide open for him.
“So fucking delicious,” he growls as he leans in, running his tongue deep inside me.
“Yesss,” I hiss, my hips beginning to move in rhythm with his tongue as he penetrates me.
He hums against me, the vibration sending new waves of sensation through my core. His hands slide from my hips to my thighs, encouraging me to widen my stance as his tongue delves deeper.
My release builds slowly, inexorably, until I’m shaking with it, crying out his name as waves of pleasure crash through me. Damien stays with me as I ride it out, slowing his touch as the aftershocks ripple through my body.
When he rises, his eyes are dark with hunger, but his touch remains controlled as he guides me out of the shower. He wraps me in a towel large enough to be a blanket, drying me with the same attentive care he’s shown since we arrived.
As he dries my back, his lips find my neck again, this time pressing a kiss just below my ear. “You’re beautiful,” he murmurs, his voice rough with desire.
Before I can respond, he turns me to face him, lifting me onto the marble counter. The cold stone against my heated skin makes me gasp, but the sensation is quickly forgotten as Damien steps between my thighs, his hardness pressing against me.
“I want you again,” he says, his voice a low rumble that I feel more than hear. “I need you.” The last part is barely above a whisper.
“Take me.” I sound like I’m begging, because I am. Because the way my body responds to his touch is like nothing I’ve experienced before. It’s like I’m under his spell, completely at his mercy.
“This time isn’t punishment or anger.” He kisses my lips softly as he presses himself against me. “Do you understand why I had to do what I did to you earlier, Eve?”
“Yes,” I whisper, my arms winding around his neck as he positions himself at my entrance.
This time, when he enters me, it’s with careful restraint, his movements measured and deep. My legs wrap around his waist, drawing him closer as my fingers dig into the strong muscles of his shoulders.
“You have to understand the consequences of your actions—of putting yourself in danger.” His movements start to gain momentum. “Don’t ever fucking do that to me again.” He reaches one hand up, pressing it against the mirror behind us.
He takes me slowly, thoroughly, his gaze never leaving mine. There’s an intimacy between us that was absent in the way he took me at the warehouse—a connection that feels almost more invasive than the physical possession.
When my pleasure builds again, he seems to sense it, his rhythm changing to bring me to the edge. “Let go,” he urges, one hand sliding between us to circle my clit. “Let me see you come apart for me again.”
My second release is more intense than the first, tearing a cry from my throat that Damien captures with his mouth.
“That’s right. Just like that, baby.” His voice begins to shake. “Fuck me, yes, just like that.” He barely gets the last words out before his release follows behind mine a moment later, his body tensing as he empties himself deep inside me.
We stay like that for a few moments, our breathing gradually slowing, our bodies still joined. Damien’s forehead rests against mine, his eyes closed like he’s savoring the moment.
When he finally withdraws, it’s with obvious reluctance. He lifts me from the counter with casual strength, carrying me to his bed, where he lays me down with surprising gentleness.
“Rest,” he says, pressing a kiss to my forehead. “I’ll be right back.”
He disappears into the bathroom, returning moments later with another towel, which he uses to dry my hair with careful attention. The domesticity of the gesture almost undoes me more than the sex . . . this powerful, dangerous man tending to me with such care after what I witnessed tonight.
When he finishes, he stretches out beside me, gathering me against his chest. I should feel trapped, but instead, I find myself relaxing into his warmth.
“Why me?” I ask into the comfortable silence. “Why have you been watching me? How do you know about my parents?”
He tenses slightly beneath me, his hand pausing where it had been stroking my back. “That’s a longer story,” he says finally. “One I’m not sure you’re ready to hear tonight.”
“I want to know,” I insist, pushing myself up to look at his face. “Whatever it is, I can handle it. After what I’ve seen tonight, there’s nothing that could shock me more.”
His expression suggests otherwise, but after a moment’s consideration, he nods. “All right. But first, let’s get dressed. This conversation requires a different setting.”
He rises, moving to a dresser where he retrieves sweatpants and a T-shirt for himself, and similar items for me. The soft cotton feels comforting against my skin after the intensity of the night.
Damien takes my hand, leading me through corridors I haven’t seen before, down to what appears to be his private office. Unlike the intimidating space at Knox Tower, this room feels more personal—bookshelves lining the walls, computer screens arranged like picture frames, and another fireplace. Each step I take deeper into Damien’s world feels like a deliberate stepping away from the light, from what I’ve always considered “right.” Yet the darkness calls to me, promising something more honest than the virtuous half-life I’ve been living.
He gestures for me to sit on the sofa while he moves to a filing cabinet in the corner. After unlocking it with a key from his desk, he removes a thick folder and brings it to me.
“This is everything,” he says, placing it in my hands. “The complete truth about your parents, about Victor Messini, about why I’ve been watching you for so long.”
He takes a deep breath, as if preparing himself. His shoulders square, and for the first time since I’ve known him, I see uncertainty flicker across his face—a hairline fracture in his perfect control.
“Victor Messini was my mentor,” he begins, his voice steady despite the tension visible in his jaw. “He was the man who brought me into the business world, who groomed me to take over his company, which I turned into Knox Industries.” He pauses, his dark eyes never leaving mine. “He was also the one driving the car that killed your parents eight years ago.”
The words hit me like a physical blow, stealing my breath and sending ice through my veins. The room tilts around me, the walls suddenly too close, the air too thin.
“What?” I whisper, the single word barely audible even to my own ears. My fingers grip the edge of his desk, needing something solid to anchor me as the foundation of my reality shifts beneath my feet.
“He was drunk,” Damien continues, his expression carefully neutral even though his eyes never leave my face, cataloging every microexpression of my unraveling. “It was raining. He’d been at a private club downtown, celebrating a successful acquisition. He’d had at least four double Scotches by the time he got behind the wheel.”
My chest constricts, making each breath a struggle. The details I’ve wondered about for years, the circumstances that stole my parents, are now being recited almost callously by the man I’ve allowed into my bed . . . and into my body only moments ago.
“The accident happened on Lakeshore Drive,” he says, his voice factual, detached. “Victor took the curve too fast. He was in the wrong lane. Your parents didn’t have time to react.”
A strangled sound escapes me—part gasp, part whimper. The police report flashes in my mind, the clinical description of a “head-on collision,” the “rainy conditions,” the “driver losing control.” All these years, I’d imagined a faceless stranger, a random tragedy. Never this. Never a deliberate cover-up by the man standing before me.
“When he realized what he’d done,” Damien says, “he called me to handle it. I was his second-in-command, so it was only natural for me to clean up his mistakes.”
Mistakes. My stomach lurches at the word.
Understanding begins to dawn, horror rising with it, and acid burning the back of my throat.
“And you did,” I whisper, the pieces falling into place with sickening clarity. “You covered it up. You made it look like someone else was driving.”
His expression remains carefully neutral. “Yes.”
The confirmation echoes in my ears, a deathly blow to everything I thought existed between us.
“Were they—” My voice breaks, and I have to start again. “Were they alive when you got there?” The question claws its way out of my throat, desperate and raw.
Something shifts in Damien’s eyes, a shadow of what might be regret. “Your father was already gone. Your mother . . .” He hesitates, and I know he’s weighing how much truth to give me. “She was still breathing when I arrived.”
A wounded sound escapes me, primal and broken. My mother was alive. She was still there, still breathing, while this man decided her fate.
“Did you talk to her?” I demand, tears now falling freely down my face. “Did she say anything? Did she know what was happening?” My voice rises with each question, hysteria edging in as images flood my mind: my mother trapped and bleeding, while Damien and his mentor decided to let her die.
“She wasn’t conscious,” Damien says, his voice softening marginally. “She couldn’t have felt any pain.”
“How do you know?” I cry, wrapping my arms around myself as if I might physically hold together the pieces that are breaking apart inside me. “How could you possibly know what she felt?”
“Eve—”
“Did you check her pulse? Did you call for help? Did you do anything to save her?” Each question comes faster, more desperate, with tears blurring my vision until Damien is just a dark shape across from me.
“No,” he admits, the word hanging heavy between us. “Victor gave the order, and I followed it. I made sure there were no witnesses, no evidence pointing to him. I staged another driver behind the wheel—a homeless man who’d died of an overdose earlier that day.”
I bend forward, a wave of nausea hitting me so hard, I think I might be sick right here on his expensive carpet. My mother was still alive, and he didn’t even try to save her. He just . . . stood there. Watched. Calculated.
“You could have called an ambulance!” I sob, my hands fisting in my hair. “You could have given her a chance. Even if it was small, even if it was hopeless, you could have tried.” My voice breaks on the last word, dissolving into heaving gasps that shake my entire body.
The reality of what he’s confessing crashes over me in waves. My parents died because a rich, powerful man was too drunk to stay in his lane, and Damien—the man I’ve been falling for—ensured he never faced consequences.
“I need to know,” I manage between sobs, forcing myself to look up at him. “I need to know everything. How it happened. What you did. Don’t you dare leave out a single detail.”
Damien studies me for a moment, then nods once. He walks to the window, his back to me as he speaks.
“I was at a fundraiser when Victor called. He was panicking, which was unusual for him. He told me there’d been an accident, and that I needed to come immediately.” His voice is steady, clinical, as if recounting events from a case file rather than describing the night that destroyed my life.
“I arrived seventeen minutes later. The road was deserted—it was after midnight, raining heavily. Victor’s Bentley was partially embedded in your parents’ sedan. The impact had pushed their car nearly thirty feet off the road.”
I close my eyes, but that only makes the images clearer, more vivid.
“Victor was still behind the wheel, bleeding from a cut on his temple. He was conscious but disoriented—the airbag had deployed, and he was still heavily intoxicated.”
“And my parents?” I whisper, needing the details even as they tear me apart inside.
“Your father was in the driver’s seat. The steering column had crushed his chest on impact. He died instantly.” Damien turns to face me, his expression grave. “Your mother was in the passenger seat. The side impact had caused severe head trauma. She was breathing, but it was shallow, irregular. Her injuries were . . . catastrophic.”
A fresh wave of tears streams down my face as I picture my mother in those final moments. Had she known my father was gone? Had she been afraid? In pain?
“What did you do?” I whisper, though I already know.
“I helped Victor from his car. Called our cleanup team—specialists who handle . . . delicate situations. While waiting for them to arrive, I checked the area for witnesses, traffic cameras, anything that might connect Victor to the scene.”
“My mother was still alive while you did all this?” My voice breaks, the betrayal so deep it feels physical.
“Yes.” He doesn’t flinch from the truth. “But by the time I returned to the cars, she had stopped breathing. The team arrived three minutes later. They removed Victor’s DNA from the scene, positioned the body of the homeless man behind the wheel of his Bentley, and staged it to look like a stolen vehicle crash.”
I press my hands against my mouth, trying to hold back the keening sound building in my throat. All these years, I’d believed the official story: a drunk driver who stole a luxury car, took a joyride, and killed my parents in a tragic accident. But it was all a lie—an elaborate cover-up to prevent a rich, powerful man from facing justice.
“Did you ever regret it?” I ask, my voice barely audible through my tears. “Did you ever think about me? About what you took from me?” I don’t know why I’m asking. It won’t change anything—won’t make hearing this gut-wrenching truth any easier to swallow.
Something shifts in Damien’s expression—the first genuine emotion I’ve seen since this devastating confession began.
“Yes,” he says simply. “It’s the only decision I’ve ever truly regretted, Eve. The only one that’s haunted me all these years.”
“So, what, you’ve been watching me out of guilt?” The thought makes my stomach turn, acid burning again at the back of my throat. “Following me? Studying me like some kind of . . . project?”
“Initially,” he admits, his honesty brutal. “But it became more than that. Something I couldn’t explain or control.”
The realization hits me with stunning force: every interaction, every “chance” meeting, every moment between us has been calculated . . . orchestrated by this man who helped destroy my life.
“My scarf,” I whisper as the memory surfaces. “In the forest preserve. You knew exactly who I was, didn’t you? From the moment you saw me there?”
“Yes.” No hesitation, no pretense.
“And that night in the alley? With Kurt? Was that planned too? Did you arrange for him to attack me so you could save me? Make me grateful? Make me trust you?” The questions pour out of me, each one peeling back another layer of betrayal.
“No,” he says firmly. “You weren’t supposed to be there that night. Kurt’s appearance was unfortunate timing. But once I saw him threatening you, I couldn’t let him hurt you.”
“How generous of you,” I spit, anger beginning to burn through the grief, cauterizing the raw edges of my pain. “The great Damien Knox, saving the damsel he helped orphan.”
The rage builds inside me like a living thing, clawing to get out. Years of grief, of questions, of searching for closure—all of it perverted by his revelation.
“And tonight?” I demand, my voice steadier now, fueled by growing fury. “Was that part of your plan too? Getting me to witness a murder, to be complicit in your world so I couldn’t go to the authorities about this?” I gesture at the folder—at the evidence of his betrayal.
“No,” he says. “That was never part of the plan. You weren’t supposed to be there tonight. You were never supposed to see that side of my life.”
“But I did,” I remind him. “And now what? I’m just supposed to forgive you? To forget that you helped cover up the worst thing that ever happened to me?”
The words tear from my throat as I launch myself at him, my fists hammering against his chest, my fury too vast to contain any longer.
“You helped him get away with it!” I scream, tears streaming down my face. “You covered up my parents’ murder! You’ve been watching me—manipulating me!”
He doesn’t try to stop me, doesn’t defend himself. He takes each blow, his eyes never leaving my face. My knuckles scrape against his skin, but he doesn’t flinch.
“I hate you,” I sob, even as my attacks weaken. “I hate what you’ve made me feel. I hate that I still want you despite knowing what you’ve done.”
My hand connects with his chest one final time before I step back, trembling with rage and grief. “You had no right,” I whisper, my voice breaking. “No right to keep this from me, to manipulate me, to make me feel . . .” I can’t finish the sentence, the truth of my twisted emotions too painful to voice.
“I know,” he acknowledges, making no move to approach me. “It’s the only decision I’ve ever truly regretted, Eve. The only one that’s haunted me all these years.”
“I doubt it,” I spit. “You don’t have a heart. You can’t possibly feel or understand emotions.”
“You can hate me all you want,” he says, his voice even. “But the fact remains that you’ve seen too much, and know too much. You can never leave this world now, Eve.”
His words land like another blow. “I thought I had a choice,” I say, remembering his promises in the throne room.
“You did,” he agrees. “Until you disobeyed me and followed me tonight.”
The reality of my situation crashes over me. I’m trapped now—bound to this man and his shadow world by what I’ve witnessed, by what I know.
“You have to choose,” he says, stepping closer. “You can be part of this, part of what I’m building. Or . . .”
“Or what?” I challenge, though I already know the answer. “What happens if I choose to destroy you instead? To take this evidence to the police and tell them everything I saw tonight?”
“You wouldn’t get that far,” he says simply—no threat in his tone, just cold certainty.
I understand then, with perfect clarity, exactly what he’s saying. If I try to expose him, I’ll disappear. Just like the man in the warehouse. Just like anyone who threatens his empire.
Tears blur my vision as the full weight of betrayal crushes me. This man, this monster, helped cover up my parents’ deaths, then spent years watching me, only to draw me into his world when our paths crossed again.
“I need to go,” I say, backing toward the door. “I can’t . . . I need to think.”
To my surprise, he doesn’t try to stop me. “You know where to find me when you’re ready to talk,” he says. “But don’t take too long, Eve. I’ve waited eight years already. My patience has limits.”
The warning in his words sends a chill down my spine. I turn and rush from the room, tears streaming down my face as I navigate the unfamiliar corridors. I have no idea where I’m going—only that I need to get away from him, from the truth he’s revealed.
A security guard finds me wandering and offers to call a car. I accept numbly, allowing myself to be led to the entrance where a sleek black sedan awaits.
As the car pulls away from Eden, I watch the Gothic mansion recede in the rear window. My mind races with everything I’ve learned, everything I’ve done, everything I’ve become in such a short time.
The man I was drawn to, the man I let touch me, claim me, possess me—he helped steal my parents from me. Then he watched me for years, calculating and manipulating. And now he’s trapped me in his world with no way out.
Tears continue to fall as the reality of my situation becomes clear: I’ve crossed lines I never thought I would, witnessed horrors I can never unsee, and given myself to a man I should hate with every fiber of my being.
And worst of all, despite everything I now know, some dark, twisted part of me still wants him.
That, more than anything, terrifies me to my core.