Chapter 17 · Whispers of the Beast

"You think you're the only one who knows how to bleed?"

Kane's voice wasn't a voice. It was a vibration—a low, guttural rattle that shook my entire ribcage.

He had me pinned. The edge of the mahogany desk dug into my spine, and his weight was a crushing wall of muscle and heat. His fingers locked around my wrists, slamming them above my head. One squeeze and I'd hear bone snap.

His eyes—once gold—were now a terrifying, blown-out crimson.

"I didn't... I wasn't..." I gasped, my chest heaving against his.

"You were reading," he snarled. He was inches from my face. I could smell the metallic tang of blood and ozone. "You were looking for a way to gut me. To drain me dry while I slept."

He shifted, his thigh forcing my legs apart, claiming every inch of space. I was a bird in a snare; he was the predator who'd just realized his prey had a knife.

"It's just a book, Kane!" I screamed, wrenching my arms. "I don't even know if it's true!"

"Liar."

He didn't pull away. He leaned closer, lips brushing the sensitive skin of my neck.