Chapter 8 · The Perfect Lie

"Kneel, Selah. It’s not a request this time," Kane said, his voice dropping an octave.

He didn't touch me, but the command hit like a physical blow. I was pinned between the cold marble of his kitchen island and the heat radiating off his chest. We were too close—way past the six-foot limit of the contract—and the parasitic bond was humming, feeding me a rush of borrowed strength that made my skin itch.

"Go to hell," I spat, though my legs were shaking.

Kane leaned in, his breath ghosting over my ear. "You’re shaking. Why is that? Is it the fear, or are you just realizing how much you actually need me to breathe?"

I tried to shove him back, but he caught my wrists in one hand, pinning them against the counter. The grip wasn't bruising, but it was absolute. He had me locked. He knew exactly how much leverage he had—my life force was literally tied to his heartbeat. If he walked away, I’d be a corpse in ten minutes.

"You're a fake, Kane," I hissed, staring into those perfect, curated eyes that the world worshipped. "The 'Golden Boy.' The saint of the Bureau.