Chapter 8 · The Price of Truth

"Give it to me, Ivy. Now."

Cain didn't shout. He didn't have to. His voice vibrated through my skin as he slammed me against the mahogany desk. He was a wall of heat, pinning me flat. One hand clamped around my wrist, crushing the letter against my chest until the paper crinkled.

"No," I spat. My heart hammered against my ribs. "You don't get to take everything. Not this."

He leaned in. His breath ghosted over my ear, smelling of cedar and ozone—the sharp scent of a storm about to break. "I own the debt your father left. I own the room you sleep in. I own the air you're wasting by saying no to me."

He pressed closer. Harder. "Do you really think a piece of parchment belongs to you?"

I twisted, trying to wrench my arm free, but he was granite. "It's from my mother! It has nothing to do with your damn contracts."

"Everything about you has something to do with me now."

His grip shifted. Fingers slid from my wrist to my waist, hauling me flush against him. I felt the hard line of his thigh hook between mine.