My EX's Mafia Twin

4. Ice burns too. [Part 1]

4. Ice burns too.

Katarina.

My eyes snap open and I kick at whatever is wrapping me, thrashing my arms and legs in desperation.

I hold back a scream in my throat and look around, frantic.

What the f**k?

I’m in a pristine, luxurious room. The white sheets beneath me make me nauseous, making me feel even more like a sacrifice.

Without thinking, I run to the door, trying to get out while shaking the handle with both hands, but it’s useless.

It’s locked.

I move toward the window: bars that look brand new, as if the place had been recently renovated… renovated for me.

I look down—more than five floors separate me from the ground.

Fuck, f**k, f**k.

They replaced my cage with a golden one.

But even if the cage is gold, it’s still a f*****g cage.

I move toward the bathroom, but there isn’t even a small window in the spacious room. There’s even a jacuzzi, with a thousand fragrances that only inject more hate into my veins.

I turn, searching for another way out, but I run into the mirror, and the woman with crazed eyes staring back at me is someone I barely recognize.

But it’s me.

My hair is a ragged mess; my lips cracked and dry. There’s dirt on my skin, makeup smeared grotesquely… but what shocks me most are my eyes.

There’s fire in them, but a bad fire.

I look wild, almost primal. My evening gown is ripped and dirty; my shoulders, almost bare, display painful bruises that streak my skin, making me look more unhinged than ever.

Without hesitation, I grab one of the jacuzzi’s showerheads and, gripping it tightly, smash it against the mirror—right over my reflection.

The crash could deafen me; it reverberates painfully in my ears.

Shards fly in every direction; I feel one cut my hand and, as I move my feet, I slice the soles. I don’t even register the pain.

As unhinged as I feel, I grab a large, sharp piece, hold it in my hand, and move toward the door of my new cage.

I hear footsteps; someone enters, and I don’t even notice who it is. I move on instinct and stab, wanting to hurt.

Wanting to kill.

A fist catches the other end of the glass, stopping my attack. The door slams shut, and, suspended in space and time, I find myself staring into the eyes of Killian Colleman.

I breathe heavily, like a wild animal, while he watches me, unflinching.

Blood drips down his forearm, just as it drips down mine.

Our hands hold the sharp glass.

Both of us wounded by the same weapon, marked in the same place.

“Are you suicidal?” he whispers, his voice rougher than I remember. “Drop that f*****g glass.”

I squeeze it harder, cutting my hand even more. I hear blood dripping on the floor. But just as I press, he presses too, and his wound grows as deep as mine.

Red, liquid blood falls on the white floor; I’m sure our DNA mixes in a nearly manic offering. But neither of us looks away.

He doesn’t flinch from the pain.

Neither do I.

Physical pain?

I can handle that.

The pain beginning to tear my chest apart?

That I’m not so sure about.

“Drop it, Katarina.”

Hearing my name from his mouth only enrages me more, and I squeeze harder. More blood runs down my forearm before hitting the floor.

Killian bares his teeth in rage and presses even harder, but doesn’t try to take the glass from me.

If he takes it, he’ll hurt me more.

If I take it, I’ll hurt him more.

So we both press, wounding each other equally.

What a f****d-up, twisted game.

“How many more scars will I have on my body because of you, Ice Princess?”

“I just want to bury this right in your chest,” I growl. “It’s the last scar you’ll have because of me. I swear it.”

I look away from his eyes, seeing the scar on his forearm; ironically, it’s the same forearm now dripping blood. That scar bears my name: he made it on himself in his attempt to snatch the knife from me the last time I saw him, three years ago.

At the same time, I feel his eyes on my neck, where only a small scar stains my skin… that wound also bears his name.

And there we are, both staring at the marks left on each other from the last time we met.

Today we’re adding a new pair to the collection.

I squeeze once more and, this time, hiss as I feel the cut go deep.

Killian’s eyes widen with rage; he leans without hesitation, bites the scar on my neck, and the pain forces a scream from me, making me drop the glass.

He curses under his breath and moves his arm back, still holding the glass, but hiding it from me.

I keep staring at him, feeling so wild I don’t recognize myself. Only he can bring out this side of me.

And just as I’m about to lunge at him again, the door opens and Demyan Ivanov appears.

Killian straightens, his eyes dim; he stares impassively across the room, almost like a ghost.

“Milaya,” the bastard who thinks he’s my father says, shaking his head at the mess I am, “is it really that hard to give up?”

“Never.”

He sighs, tired and disappointed.

“Killian, handle it,” he says to the f*****g psychopath, who nods obediently. “I already have enough on my plate without adding her.”

“Yes, sir.”

And Demyan Ivanov leaves, leaving me alone with the f*****g psychopath, Killian Colleman.