My EX's Mafia Twin

5. Accepting reality [Part 2]

Killian moves away from me and starts filling the jacuzzi. I watch him in silence as he adds salts and oils, measures the jets, and adjusts the temperature. My body gets wet, and the wounds on my battered skin burn, though at the same time I feel a strange relief.

“I never thought I’d see you as a pawn,” I provoke him. “You’re the lapdog of a mobster.”

“You don’t know anything.”

“Oh, but I do know,” I smile. “All your life you’ve been under Reid’s shadow, and now you’re under Demyan Ivanov’s. How does it feel never to be the main attraction?”

He stops what he’s doing and slowly turns his face toward me, his eyes so dilated with hatred they could match mine.

“If my brother’s name comes out of your mouth again…”

“Reid,” I interrupt his threat.

Killian lunges at me and grabs my jaw with a firm hand, turning my face toward him. His eyes are clouded with such dark feelings he seems like a being straight from the underworld.

“You don’t see Reid here, ice princess,” he whispers in my ear. “You don’t see anyone giving a single penny for you.”

“Shut up.”

“Do you know where my brother is?” he asks, searching my eyes with cold cruelty. “He’s living his idyllic life with Willa, free and happy, while you fall into the hands of a mobster. I can swear they don’t even remember your name. That’s how forgettable you are, Katarina Volkov.”

“Go to hell.”

“In hell, it’s just you and me. I’ve lived in it for three f*****g years,” he turns my face, speaking against my mouth while I breathe shallowly. “It’s just me here, Katarina, no one else to cling to. And the faster that cold head of yours understands it, the better.”

He releases me as I glare at him; his words sting my soul, and if his goal was to hurt me… he succeeded.

I remain silent, boiling inside, ignoring him as he continues fixing my shower. When I feel his clothes drop, I turn and see him stepping into the jacuzzi with me, only his jeans covering his body, low on his hips, revealing almost the trail of hair leading to his groin.

“Don’t you dare.”

But he dares: he moves toward me and plants his knees on each side of my hips. His bare torso is imposing, defined, and tanned, much more muscular than before.

With agile, rough hands, Killian tears my dress off, ripping it from my skin like it were thin paper.

I stare at his chest. There are more scars than I can count, one particularly large on his side. I’m certain none of that was there three years ago.

I lift my eyes to his face. He’s focused on removing the dress, so I allow myself to examine the scandalous scar on his skin more closely.

What hell has he gone through?

And what the hell do I care?

“Does Demyan agree with his lapdog doing this to me?” I ask, clenching my fists, as he bends down and breaks the thin strap of my bra with his teeth, his breath bathing my skin.

I close my eyes and turn my face, but the movement only makes my nose brush against his hair and his scent sink deep into my lungs.

“He trusts me,” he answers, without further explanation.

I wonder what that trust implies and what he had to do to deserve it.

Any thought about him and my father vanishes when I feel his hands sliding down to my hips. With a swift motion, Killian slides my panties down my legs, leaving me completely naked.

The water is clear, without soap or foam, so my nudity is fully exposed to his eyes.

Nudity has never been an issue for me; my profession sometimes demands that modesty be thrown out the window. But for some reason, with Killian, I care even less about being naked. I even feel comfortable, as if it’s not the first time.

I look at him, but beyond the strong contraction of his jaw, Killian shows nothing else.

I hiss as a soft sponge brushes my shoulders, and I swallow the grimace of pain I want to make. Killian pauses for a moment, looks at me, then continues down to my shoulders, cleaning me.

I tilt my head back and rest it on the ceramic, eyes closed as he continues to wash my body gently. Where his hands pass it hurts; my body is still battered as it can be, but somehow his touch also brings comfort.

My hands clench into fists again, my arms immobile as the soft sponge washes my breasts, careful not to touch my n*****s.

I open my eyes just in time to see his expression; his jaw tightens again in that masculine way that draws me in so much.

Ignoring my n*****s, Killian moves his hands down my stomach, washing me with the sponge.

I smile.

“Am I making you nervous?” I ask, tilting my face slightly to look at him better, remembering the first words we shared when we met.

I was eighteen, he was twenty. And I was deeply captivated by the indifference on his face. His expression was so neutral, it looked so authentic. I envied that indifference because it was exactly what I had pretended to feel all my life. And while for me it was acting, for him it was an intrinsic trait of his personality.

The instant attraction I felt toward him made me act a little daring. But in my defense, I was a girl used to men falling at my feet. He didn’t; in fact, from that moment, he behaved as if I were an inconvenience in his life.

Killian lifts his face, his eyes gleaming with danger.

“Am I making you nervous?”

My question angers him.

That strand of hair falling over his forehead annoys me; I want to push it aside so badly my hands itch with need.

“Intimidated by a pair of t**s, Killian Colleman?” I continue to provoke him.

He drops the sponge and, suddenly, taking me by surprise, pinches each n****e with agile fingers, making me gasp as my back arches toward him.

“Shut your f*****g mouth,” he growls, before letting go and continuing his task.

Son of a b***h.

My n*****s are buzzing, tingling from his touch.

I close my eyes and return to my previous position; however, when calloused yet gentle fingers begin washing my face with utmost care, I tense, unused to this treatment, to someone taking care of me.

His thumb brushes my lower lip from end to end, while his other fingers hold my head firmly, until his pinky strokes the hollow behind my ear.

I squeeze my eyes shut, suppressing the shiver running through my body.

His thumb brushes my lips again, this time the upper one, before moving to the delicate skin under my eyes, cleaning the mascara I know smudges my face. He takes his time with this task, making sure my skin is completely clean. His breath tickles me, and the soft movement of his touch almost makes me forget the situation we’re in. When he finishes, the back of his thumb brushes my eyelashes, caressing them gently, then does the same on my eyebrows.

I don’t know if he notices, but the fingers holding my head begin tracing soft caresses on the skin behind my ear, brushing along the hairline.

I hate him.

There’s no awkwardness in his touch, no hesitation. Though I’m sure it’s the first time Killian has cared for anyone other than himself, he acts with confidence, without a hint of uncertainty.

I open my eyes to find him just inches from me, focused on his task.

“I’ll wash your hair.”

And that’s another level of torture.

I want to moan as his fingers almost expertly massage my long hair.

He uses the shower stream to make the job easier, taking care of me as he detangles strand by strand with thick, calloused fingers striving to be gentle. Again, he takes his time, and I keep watching his focused expression. Using conditioner to soften my hair, Killian takes strand after strand, removing knot after knot, ensuring as little damage as possible.

It’s so strange to see him do this. I never thought Killian’s hands could reach this level of care.

He finishes and moves downward. He lifts my leg and, as he did in the room, places my foot on his thigh, washing one and then the other. Finally, he moves up my legs, and my eyes don’t leave him at any moment.

“You can let me go now,” I growl, moving my cuffed wrists to emphasize my point.

Killian lifts his eyes toward me and, with a deadly serious expression, says, “But I’m not done.”

“No…”

My words die, and my mouth opens, expelling all the air I had left as his hand slowly moves between my legs. His fingers stroke my v****a with firm, deliberate caresses, and his middle finger gently parts my lips, leaving me sensitive to his touch.

I watch him silently as he moves closer, making me open my legs wider.

He’s staring intently at what he’s doing, so focused on his task. His thumb caresses between my lips, up and down, up and down, until he slowly parts them, finding my swollen c******s.

I throw my head back, swallowing a moan.

“Did Demyan Ivanov ask you to do this?” I manage to ask, struggling not to lean into his touch.

“Demyan Ivanov can go f**k himself, I’m just washing your pussy.”

He traps the small flesh button between thumb and index, twists gently once, twice, three times, then withdraws his hand, leaving me struggling to breathe.

A shiver runs through my body as I fight the contained orgasm; with that simple touch, he had me there, on the edge.

I fall back against the wall of the jacuzzi, unaware when my back arched away from the solid support.

I look at him drowsily as he unties me. First, one wrist, then the other, caressing the skin almost tenderly before freeing me completely.

Just as he brought me, Killian carries me in his arms to lay me on the bed.

And that escape from reality, caused by our s****l tension, disappears when I see an elegant dress laid out on the bed, waiting for me.

“I’m not dressing like that.”

“That’s an order. We leave in two hours.”

“No.”

“There’s makeup there,” he points to one of the dressers. Then he takes a remote, points it at the TV, and the screen lights up, showing my mother sleeping alone at home. “And this is your last warning. If you continue opposing her orders, next time you’ll see her with a bullet between her eyes.”

And Killian leaves, leaving the threat hanging in the air.

I fling the dress against the wall and scream, sending them all to hell.