My EX's Mafia Twin

4. Ice burns too. [Part 2]

“Not exactly what I expected as a welcome hug, but… cutting my hand?” Killian shakes his head toward the floor while sliding the glass into the back pocket of his worn denim jeans. “Ice Princess, you’re still just as cold.”

“What the f**k are you doing here?” I growl, moving backward as he advances. My bare feet step in blood and burn from the shards I stepped on in the bathroom, but I keep retreating blindly, almost in circles, while he closes in.

I don’t take my eyes off him, never lowering my guard.

Killian lifts his shirt, bites an edge, tears it off, and rips a long strip of fabric.

And he doesn’t take his eyes off me either. Keeping his step firm toward me, he roughly wraps the fabric around his hand, pressing hard against his wound, and I continue backing up until I’m cornered in the room.

“You need to reconcile yourself with having me close, Katarina,” he says slowly, stopping in front of me. “Demyan Ivanov will only leave you in my hands; he trusts no one else.”

I laugh, because this makes no f*****g sense.

And I could cry out of rage, but I refuse.

I refuse to cry over this f****d-up situation.

“Who are you?”

“His right hand.”

I close my eyes, shaking my head.

“What the hell are you involved in, Killian?”

“Do you really want to know?”

“What did you do after that last day?”

“Do you really want to know?”

“Where did you go?”

“Do you want to know?” he repeats; his breath fans across my face, but I refuse to open my eyes. I refuse to let him see the pain in them.

He just left… he left.

Killian disappeared.

And now this?

What the f**k is happening?

“Just when I think you couldn’t get any worse, you show up here, being the right hand of a f*****g mobster.”

“Your father.”

“He’s not my father.”

“He is.”

“What are you doing, Killian?” I ask desperately, finally opening my eyes to look at him.

Killian studies me slowly, and I study him in return. My eyes drop to the scar on his face, but he doesn’t react as I take in his terrible mark. It’s like he doesn’t care, so indifferent to everything it scares me.

Not even I reach that level of detachment.

“I did what I had to do to survive.”

“No,” I shake my head.

“Reid left me no choice,” is his passionless answer. “You always knew I was the bad guy. Is it really so surprising to see me here?”

“It can’t be a simple coincidence.”

“Are you sure?”

“Don’t play with me, fuck.”

Killian laughs, the sound echoing painfully in my ears.

“Do you think I’m here for you? To save you?” he asks, tilting his head slightly with a cutting smirk. “I’m not your knight in shining armor, Frozen. I’m not my brother; I didn’t come to save you… I came to sink you deeper.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“I went against my own brother, my twin, no less. Why do you think I wouldn’t go against you?” He leans toward me, whispering in my ear. “Do you think you’re that special, Katarina Volkov?”

I grind my teeth, fighting back tears.

“Of all the people in existence, it can’t be a coincidence that you’re working with my biological father.”

“Coincidence? No, it’s not a coincidence.”

“What?”

“Who do you think gave him your DNA to confirm paternity?”

I look at him, hurt, but trying not to let him see how deeply this is destroying me inside.

“Why?”

“He was the most powerful pawn, the only option left after Reid closed all doors to me,” he says plainly.

I tilt my head back, trying to read him, but his eyes show nothing.

Never have.

I refuse to believe this is true.

“Was it you who helped him get to me?”

“Ding-dong, you got it,” he grabs my hand, and though I struggle, Killian is stronger and holds me while staring at the blood still flowing from my wound. “It was easy: I just gave Demyan the tools to have your family in his power. You were a fair trade. You, in exchange for keeping Elijah Campbell’s secrets in the closet, plus a nice paycheck. Not even your mother opposed it.”

“What?”

“Elijah has dirty business, very dirty… I just put that information where it needed to be.”

I feel like I might vomit.

“Son of a bitch.”

“The rest was easy, easier than I thought.”

“I don’t believe you.”

He laughs, but his laugh is as empty as his eyes.

“Then don’t believe me,” he says, clearly not giving a s**t about what I think of him.

I don’t have to ask how the hell he found out the truth about me, my mother, my real father. Killian is a hacker, f**k, and even though Reid tried to deny it and ignore it his whole life, I know perfectly well how far his reach goes and how he uses it to his advantage.

But that he would use my past—one I didn’t even fully know myself—to his benefit… that I didn’t expect.

I thought I’d never see him again.

But here he is: the one who pulled the strings to make all this happen.

I hate him.

I always hated him.

But today, I hate him more than ever.

The whole world fades around me.

My entire life shatters.

My past, my present, my future.

Everything breaks, leaving me with nothing.

And the main culprit is here, right in front of me.

I lunge at him, trying to grab the glass from his pocket, but he beats me to it and throws it out the window.

I want to kill him.

Or at least wound him badly.

So I glance toward the bathroom door, then at him, and back to the bathroom. My feet run in that direction, desperate to grab another sharp shard I can bury in him with all my strength. That’s what I want: to hurt him as deeply as he’s hurting me.

Suddenly, out of nowhere, his arm shoots toward me, leverages my waist, and shoves me harshly onto the bed.

I bounce against the mattress, my whole body doing so, especially my head, which crashes backward against the hard headboard. I brace for the pain, but it never comes; instead, my head bounces against something warm and protective. I slowly open my eyes to find Killian over me; his injured hand cradles my head, shielding me from the impact.

“Protecting your merchandise?”

“Preventing you from killing yourself,” he replies, staring at my lips, his lashes partially hiding his eyes from me. “If you were dead, your father wouldn’t pay me.”

“Son of a b***h,” I whisper, gathering all the hatred I can.

I strike him with my arms and legs, hard; even my fist connects with his face. He curses, but skillfully moves my body until he has me tied to the f*****g bed, like the sacrifice Demyan and he turned me into.

I thrash up and down, fighting for freedom.

“Let me go.”

He ignores me and moves toward the bathroom. Meanwhile, I breathe wildly, ignoring both physical and emotional pain, focusing only on my rage.

When Killian returns, he brings a first aid kit.

I watch as he drops to his knees beside the corner of the bed, observing my tied hand and beginning to clean and stitch it with utmost care.

I grit my teeth, swallowing back the tears.

I hate him, f**k.

I hate him.

I always hated how easily Killian got under my skin, how quickly he burrowed into me, always with that f*****g indifference I envied. While my insides roared with a thousand conflicting feelings wanting to explode toward him, Killian was always the same smug, arrogant, apathetic son of a b***h who cared for no one but himself.

And seeing him there, tending me with focus and delicacy, giving me a taste of what I secretly always wanted from him—but in a completely wrong situation—breaks me even more.

And a stupid tear escapes the corner of my eye.

I turn my face away, blinking upward to chase the rest away. Just before that single tear falls onto the soft fabric of the mattress, Killian leans over, tilts my face gently with his jaw, and kisses my tear, swallowing it into his mouth.

I close my eyes, inhaling his scent filling my lungs like a drug. His nose moves imperceptibly against my cheek, almost like a caress, and I can swear he inhales my scent too. But he pulls away too quickly, the thought disappearing as fast as it arrived.

And I feel so raw, my heart bruised and my soul withered, that I offer no resistance as he moves away and begins cleaning and tending my feet.

Killian works in heavy silence that bothers me, but seems not to affect him.

I just want him to finish and leave.

I just want to deal with my own pain.

I count the seconds, which feel eternal; only the sterile sounds of him cleaning and treating my feet reach me. I wrestle with all the emotions inside me, until he finally finishes and leaves without another word.

I stare at the ceiling, there, tied and at peace with this grateful solitude.

No tears fall… not a single one.

It hurts, and I feel like I’m dying inside, but without even trying, my exterior stays stoic, just as Elijah Campbell taught me to handle pain since I was a little girl.

I was raised for this, a perfect Ice Princess.

But ice burns too.

And there, I swear it.

I will burn them all.