Page 115 of The Code of You

"But I know one thing,” he whispered. "The way your body responds to me, the chemistry between us . . . I can’t create that. I can only amplify what’s already there.”

"That’s supposed to comfort me?”

"That is the truth.” He knelt before me, his hands on my thighs. "I am a monster, Pandora, but I’m your monster. And you’re the only one who makes me wish I weren’t.”

He stayed on his knees for a moment. When I moved, he stood abruptly and went to the window. Minutes passed. Neither of us spoke. I watched his shoulders tense, release, tense again, as if he was fighting with himself.

"There’s something else.”

The way he said it was quiet, almost broken. The hair on the back of my neck stood up. I tried to move my fingers, but they stiffened.

"The crane. The bricks . . .” His voice was barely audible.

"That was you.” My thighs were trembling. My breath stopped for a moment.

"I didn’t want that to happen,” he said. "I was agitated and angry. I lost control of my energy field.”

I stepped back. "You could have killed me. You almost killed yourself.”

My stomach contracted. I stood. "You have too much power.”

"I only have you.” The words came haltingly. His voice, usually so controlled, was trembling. He looked at me, and for the first time he looked lost as if he were dissolving into a thousand fragments, and only I held him together.

My heart cramped. I felt compassion, tenderness, all the emotions I wasn’t allowed to feel for him. I curled my hands into fists until my nails pressed half-moons into my palms. The pain helped against the warmth spreading in my chest.

"Nothing was real.” My voice nearly broke. "Nothing between us was real.”

Something hardened in his eyes. The vulnerability of a moment ago vanished as if I had slammed a door. His posture straightened, his shoulders broadening. The broken god was gone—the monster returned.

"Not real?” He laughed, low and dark. "Your body says otherwise. When you moan my name. When you come back to me despite everything.” He grabbed my wrist. "This is real. You belong to me, manipulated or not.”

I tore my hand away. "I belong to no one.” My voice went cold. "I hate you.”

He went still. His hand hung in the air between us. "You hate me.”

"Yes,” I hissed. "I hate you for what you’ve done. I hate you for what you are. A sick, manipulative asshole who stops at absolutely nothing.”

His eyes searched mine. Amber darkening. "You hate me,” he repeated, his voice resonating from his chest. "Then show me.”

The air between us vibrated. His words hung in the room like a challenge.

I stared at him, my heart hammering. "What?”

He closed his hand around my wrist again. "Show me how much you hate me.”

My breath caught, a tingle moving across my skin. He was so impossibly brazen. It was . . . hot.

I grabbed him. My fingers buried themselves in his shirt and pulled him toward me. It was the only way I had to hurt him. He pressed me against the wall. His mouth found mine, his teeth digging into my lower lip. I bit back and tasted blood. His or mine—it didn’t matter. He tore at my blouse. Buttons flew off, clattered to the floor.

"I hate you,” I gasped against his mouth.

"Good,” he murmured. "Hate me.”

He lifted me and pressed me harder against the wall. My legs wrapped around his hips. His hands slid under my skirt, his fingers finding my panties. I moaned. I wanted him. I hated him. I needed him. Everything at once. I was completely at his mercy.

No. This was . . . too much. I pushed him away. "Not now.”

He stared at me, his chest heaving. "What?” His body coiled like a spring. "You’re refusing me?”