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Tossing the towel onto the floor, I sink into the bath and sigh as the hot water pinches my skin.
“You’re mad.” He sits on the edge of the tub. “You gonna tell me why, or are you gonna be a girl and dance around the fact until I figure it out myself?”
“I’m not mad,” I answer honestly. Because I’m not. “It’s nothing.” It’s not nothing, but I can’t tell him any more than I have. I have to conceal my hand. Sometimes protecting ourselves means hurting ourselves in the process.
His hand comes to my chin as he squeezes roughly, casing me out. I scan his face. His jawline is cut impeccably flawless, with a blade as sharp as a razor. His cheekbones stride classically across his face in perfect symmetry. His eyebrows are expressive, curving and dipping whenever he’s deep in thought. His lips, well. His lips are something else entirely. The edges soft, dipping into a cupid bow. Everything about Killian is powerful and addictive.
His tongue sneaks out, dampening his bottom lip, the piercing on his tongue catching my eye.
“Did you have fun last night?” I need to distract myself from wanting to pull him into the bath and hate fuck him into tonight.
He leans down, his lips grazing over mine. I melt, slipping under the water a little more. “No,” he mumbles before leaning back. His hand drops from around my face. “You know that I’ve fucked all of those girls, right? And have multiple times. It’s what this lifestyle is all about and I was raised in this here, so I don’t know any other way.”
“Why are you telling me this?” I don’t look at him, reaching for the soap and squeezing the bottle into the palm of my hand.
“Because I feel like what happened last night is playing a part in why you’re pissed.”
I leer up at him innocently, as I rub the soap over my breasts. “I’m not mad.”
His eyes fall to the movement. He smirks. “Sure about that?”
I shrug. “I’m sure.”
He pauses, pinching his lips between his teeth. “We’ll see.” Just when I think he’s going to do or say something. Anything. Maybe tell me what happened last night, he turns and leaves.
“Lock your fucking door.”
The flight was long. Longer than I wanted it to be. I slept for the better part of the trip, but it still felt long. I still can’t get over the fact that the founding families own a damn 747.
I’m gathering up all of my crap after landing when P hooks her arm in mine. “We all have to get our tattoos while we’re here.”
I freeze, one hand on the strap of my backpack and the other clutching my phone.
“Why?”
We start walking toward the exit. “Well, because you can only get the tattoo here. Something about the ink, and then there’s this whole ceremony thing that we all have to go through—” We make our way down the stairs. I shiver as the cool air whips around me. I am well aware of the ceremony and what it entails, but I didn’t think we would do it right now. Amongst everything else that seems to be going on, getting marked seems diminutive.
Four jacked out black Range Rovers are parked in front of us. Men dressed in dark suits and dark glasses standing guard at each one.
“So, you’re in?” Perse asks, nudging me.
“Sure,” I say, just to get her off my ass about it. Truthfully, I don’t want to be here, and I don’t know why. I think I’m ready to be back in the US and back to usual touring. Usual shows. I don’t want to be here, in Kiznitch. I just wish I knew why my stomach and heart ached being on what’s supposed to be my homeland.
“Tell me more. More. More. More.”
The walls are tightening around me, the closer they get, the less I can breathe.
“More.”
“I don’t know!” I scream so loud my eardrums pop.
“Sass! In here…” Killian calls out. Our tension swallows everyone and everything around us whole. “Now.”
“Just go.” Perse pushes me toward him. “He’s not going to let up.”
I slide my glasses over my eyes and follow his orders. This once. Mainly because I don’t want to cause a scene in the middle of an airstrip. As soon as I’m in front of him, he grabs at my fingers and leads us around the Range Rover that I thought we were getting into.
“Where are you taking me?”
He pulls out a set of keys from his pocket and points.
I pause. I know the extent of their money, but wealth is hard to digest when you’ve been fed poverty all your life.
The matte black Lambo lights up as he points. “Get in.”
“Why?” I ask skeptically, making my way to the passenger side. “Why not ask someone else?”
