"Get your hands off me, you arrogant prick!"
I lunged, but the leash—invisible and absolute—snapped me back. A searing jolt of white-hot pain ripped through my chest, slamming me against the wall of the penthouse. I gasped, my lungs refusing to expand, as the parasitic bond flared. It wasn't just pain; it was a vacuum, sucking the very breath out of me because I'd dared to step too far away from him.
Kane didn't even flinch. He stood three feet away, looking at me with that polished, saintly expression that made me want to carve my name into his chest. He looked perfect. Not a hair out of place. The 'Golden Boy' of the Bureau, the man the world worshipped while I was being hunted like a rabid dog.
"Still fighting it?" He stepped closer, the distance narrowing. The moment he entered my space, the pressure in my chest eased, replaced by a sickening, warm hum of energy. "You're wasting your breath, Selah. The contract doesn't care about your pride."
"I'll kill you," I hissed, sliding down the wall, my nails digging into the expensive wallpaper. "The second I find a loophole in this piece of shit bond, I'm ripping your throat out."
Kane laughed. It wasn't a loud laugh—it was soft, dangerous, and entirely too smug. He reached down, his fingers wrapping around my jaw. He didn't squeeze hard, but the possessiveness in the grip made my skin crawl. His thumb brushed over my lower lip, a touch that was far too intimate for two people who wanted each other dead.
"You'll try," he whispered, his breath warm against my cheek. "But until then, you're not a traitor, or a fugitive, or a villainess. You're mine. My ward. My project. My property."
I spat at his boots. "I'm nobody's property."
"You are now." He let go of my face and stepped back, the sudden gap making my heart stutter. The bond tightened again, a warning. "Now, stand up. We have guests arriving in ten minutes, and you look like you've been dragged through a sewer. I can't have the press thinking I'm harboring a corpse."
"Guests?" I managed to push myself up, my legs shaking. "You're bringing people here? While I'm literally chained to your soul?"
"PR, darling. The world needs to see the Golden Boy redeeming the Fallen Star. It's a narrative the public eats up. 'Mercy.' 'Forgiveness.' It's disgusting, really, but it keeps the Bureau off my back and keeps you from being executed on live TV."
I glared at him, my vision blurring. "Who the hell are you kidding? You don't give a damn about mercy. You just want to see me crawl."
"And you're doing such a great job of it," he retorted, gesturing toward the massive walk-in closet. "Go. Change. There are clothes in there that actually fit your size. Try not to rip them; they cost more than your last three apartments combined."
I didn't move. "Why me? Out of everyone the Bureau burned, why did you save me?"
Kane paused, his back to me. For a split second, the mask slipped. I saw something cold and calculating in the line of his shoulders. Then he turned, the fake smile back in place.
"Because you're the only one with enough spite left to be interesting. Now move, or I'll carry you to the shower myself."
I stormed past him, intentionally slamming my shoulder into his. He didn't budge. He was like a mountain of muscle and arrogance. I practically threw myself into the closet, slamming the door shut.
I leaned against the wood, breathing hard. My chest still throbbed where the bond had snapped. I looked around the room—it was a palace of minimalism and wealth. Everything was white, gold, and sterile. Just like him.
I found a silk dress that looked like it belonged at a gala for people who buy islands. I stripped off my torn tactical gear, my skin mottled with bruises and half-healed burns from the escape. I hated how the silk felt against my skin—too soft, too luxurious. It felt like a shroud.
As I dressed, my mind raced. The parasitic contract was a death sentence if he decided to stop feeding me. He held the keys to my survival. Every breath I took was a gift from the man I hated most in this world.
I stepped back out into the living area just as the doorbell chimed. Kane was standing by the window, checking his watch. He looked up, and for a moment, his eyes lingered on the way the dress hugged my curves. The air between us thickened, a sudden, electric tension that had nothing to do with the contract and everything to do with the raw, violent attraction I refused to acknowledge.
"Better," he murmured, his voice dropping an octave. He walked toward me, the space between us vanishing. He reached out, adjusting the strap of the dress on my shoulder. His fingertips grazed my skin, and a shiver shot down my spine that I couldn't suppress. "Try to look like you don't want to murder everyone in the room. It'll make the lie easier to sell."
"I can't promise that," I whispered, leaning in just enough to smell his cologne—sandalwood and something metallic. "Especially not when you're the one leading the parade."
"Good. A little fire makes you believable." He leaned closer, his lips inches from my ear. "But remember: if you snap, if you even breathe the wrong way, I'll make sure the next place you wake up is a containment cell in the Sub-Levels. Understood?"
I clenched my teeth. "Crystal."
He stepped away, the coldness returning instantly. "Perfect. Now smile. The vultures are here."
After two hours of playing the 'reformed criminal' and 'merciful savior,' I felt like I was going to vomit. I had to stand there, nodding while city officials and socialites praised Kane's 'nobility.' Every time he put an arm around my waist or leaned in to whisper a 'comforting' word, I wanted to scream. The physical proximity was a torture device. I could feel his heat, his pulse, the steady thrum of his power. It was addictive and repulsive all at once.
When the last guest finally left, I didn't wait for Kane to speak. I bolted for the bedroom, needing to get away from his suffocating presence.
I didn't go to the bed. I went to his desk.
I knew it was a risk. I knew he probably had sensors everywhere. But the need to know *why* he was doing this was stronger than the fear of the bond. I started pulling open the drawers, tossing aside leather-bound planners and high-end tech.
In the bottom drawer, tucked beneath a false lining, I found it.
It was a physical photograph. Old school. Glossy.
I picked it up, and my heart stopped.
It was a shot of me from three years ago—the night of the setup. But the angle was wrong. This wasn't a Bureau surveillance photo. This was taken from inside the command center. It showed me standing over the detonator, but the image had been digitally altered. Someone had spliced in a signature that didn't belong to me.
And on the back of the photo, written in a sharp, precise hand, were three words:
*Asset: Phase Two.*
I stared at the handwriting. I'd seen it a thousand times on the official reports. It was Kane's.
"Looking for something?"
The voice came from the doorway. I spun around, the photo still clutched in my shaking hand. Kane was leaning against the frame, his arms crossed, his eyes dark and unreadable. He wasn't smiling anymore.