Damien Crowe Novels & Stories

from Damien? A scowl twisted my lips as I thought of the man that had stolen Vivian's heart. Damien was dangerous, no doubt about that. But Vivian didn’t know that. She didn’t know the world she was involved in, didn’t know the kind of person she was surrounded by. **Damien Sullivan was a part of the Cosa Nostra**, and that meant he was a part of something far darker than she could imagine.

"Then what about the boy? Leo? You cannot tell me that his resemblance to me is merely a coincidence of the universe!" Mark fell silent, not daring to argue. "I am going back to Manhattan," Damian hissed. "I will not give up. If Cornwall won’t give me answers, then I will make Sheina herself give them to me in New York. I will trap her in my own game." Two Days Later – Manhattan, New York. The Xavier Tower headquarters stood majestic amidst the concrete forest of Manhattan. Damian sat behind his massive teak desk, refusing all scheduled meetings. Before him, a projector displayed slides of Sheina Blake’s latest paintings.

Damien Crowe walked in like he owned the place, with that annoying smirk on his face. “Well, well,” he said, looking straight at me. “Look who decided to show his face. I heard you got shot. I’m surprised you’re still walking around.” I clenched my jaw but didn’t say anything. Damien walked closer and glanced at the script I had chosen. “Taking this role?” he asked with fake concern. “I don’t know if that’s a good idea. With everything going on with your image lately, people might not be very… forgiving. But then again, you’ve always loved attention, haven’t you?”

She came again, screaming, body convulsing in his arms while their eyes stayed locked. “Fuuuuck! I’m cumming again—shit, I can’t stop cumming on your cock! Arghh!” Damon groaned loudly, his control finally breaking. “I’m gonna cum deep inside you. Take every drop.” Damon buried himself as deep as possible and exploded. Thick, hot ropes of cum flooded her pulsing pussy. He kept his eyes on hers the entire time, groaning her name as he filled her completely. “Feel that? I’m breeding you. This cunt is full of me now.”

"If Sorokin's information is good, that's her." Damien looked at the mark for a long moment, and felt something in his chest do the thing it had been doing since the note at the villa — grief and hope tangled so tightly together he couldn't separate them anymore, didn't try to. "I want to go in with the first group," he said. "No," Victor said, immediate, flat. "Victor"

"Then why am I here?" "Because I wanted to watch you understand what losing feels like." The six CEOs shifted uncomfortably. One of them, he did not see who, coughed into his napkin. Damien stood. Slowly. He leaned over the table until his face was inches from hers. "I do not know what I did to you," he said quietly. "But I am going to find out." "Are you, Mr. Cross?" "I am." "I look forward to it." He walked out of the restaurant. Down the elevator. Across the lobby. Into the street. He got into his car and told the driver to go home. He closed his eyes and pressed his fingers against his temples until the pressure made him see spots.

I'd just started to drift off when the bedroom door clicked. Through half-closed eyes, I saw Damien. He stiffened. Then, when I didn't move, he relaxed. He lay down. Enya's jasmine scent drifted over, mixed with that faint, dirty smell. His phone buzzed. Through my lashes, I glanced at his phone. More messages from Enya: [Damien, are you asleep?] [You have to come to my studio tomorrow at noon. I've got a big surprise for you.] [I'm going to shower too. Too bad you left in such a rush—you missed out, hehe.]

“They were family.” Damien sat with perfect, aristocratic posture despite his torn black shirt and crimson-flecked eyes. “Damien Crowe. Graduate student. Pure-blood vampire. I drove a silver blade through my sire’s heart tonight. The man who gave me this cursed existence… called me his greatest pride.” A bitter smile touched his lips. “Now I’m alone in the bloodline.”

Just him—a boy in a grey sweater, his dark hair falling across his forehead, his grey eyes steady. The reporters surged forward. "Damien! Damien! Is it true that you've been held against your will?" "Damien! Did the Ashford family kidnap you?" "Damien! What do you have to say to your grandfather?" Damien raised his hand. The crowd went silent. "I have a statement," he said. He pulled a piece of paper from his pocket. He unfolded it. He read. "My name is Damien Cross Jr. I am twenty-one years old. I am not a minor. I am not mentally unfit. I am not being held against my will."

The caption beneath the image was brief and clinical: *Primary principal identified. Location confirmed. Movement detected within the last six hours.* I looked up. “This is him. The one who sent Voss.” “Yes.” Damian’s voice was flat. “His name is Adrian Crowe. Former outer-circle advisor to the old Kane board. Specialized in residual research acquisitions and the quiet removal of inconvenient variables. He has been buying pieces of the architecture for years under different shells. When the pathway burned, he lost his primary tool. When the funding networks collapsed, he lost his insulation. Now he is moving because he has nothing left to hide behind.”