If we looked in a mirror, would we even look similar anymore? We’ve both changed, but the damage I’ve caused to him seems to be permanent. It’s a fixture on his face, in his stance, taking us from inseparable to removed.
“You’re my twin. The other half of me. My best friend…” He trails off, emotion clogging his features. “Were. You were all those things.”
“What changed?”
“Dishonesty,” he bites back, his glare scissoring between my ribs.
Kenjington Grim, my own personal autopsy, removing my barely beating heart first, making sure I’d see it before life left me.
“I’ve only ever been honest,” I argue, shaking my head. My chest still heaves from overworking, shaking in exhaustion and this conversation.
“No. You tell me you want to bet to kiss people, then steal shit, vandalize, beat up some, and it goes on and on.” He waves his hands before punching the wall in aggravation. “Then you want me to fuck some random kid that neither of us like. But it’s more than that, isn’t it, Salvatore?” Fisting his shirt, he pushes off the wall and rushes me. “You couldn’t just tell me, could you? Couldn’t admit that there’s something more…”
His hand connects with my chest again, but this time his palm is flat, explorative, almost worshiping. “Couldn’t admit you feel it. This weird fucking surge whenever we make bets that risk everything. Ones that make us do things together, but are used as an excuse because it’s wrong.”
Our eyes connect.
Lavender to lavender.
“Why not be honest? I’ve never judged you, not like that, for something that’s between us and only us.”
“KJ,” I start, trying to stop him. This bleeds too close to things we’re not allowed to want. Things I’ve avoided, forced him away from, and even hurt him in hopes he’d stay away.
“Don’t do that. Lie. Make up shit excuses as to what you’re feeling!” His voice raises, his body against mine, heart pounding in an irritated thrum. He grabs my chin, his thumb caressing my lip and piercing. It sends a surge through me, escalating, overpowering, winning. “We are twins, Atlas. I feel it. You. Us. I have since we were kids.”
“It’s wrong,” I admit, my soul aching in a way it shouldn’t be able to feel.
“It’s us, Salvatore.” Savior. Being Italian doesn’t have too many perks. Yeah, great food is nice. The language is beautiful. But it can be dark, muddied by greed. It’s our life. We’re besmirched by it all. Soiled in this past our parents have. This Society that protects us without reasoning.
“Rischio,” I sound out. Risk.
For the longest time, he was my risk. Even now.
My stake. My bet. My wager. Kenjington, my twin brother.
It’s him.
Every single time.
“Fuck, just do it already, Atlas. I can’t take it anymore!” he lets out, raising his arms aggressively. Does he mean kill Rusty? Because he’s right on the nose, and he doesn’t need to ask twice. He pushes me against the wall as he breathes deeply. He’s being pulled apart with guilt from my bet. My intentions were never to let him win. My blade would slice into that fucker; it’d leak his blood, and I’d watch as his life seeped from him. That is my want—I just want KJ to be mine without strings attached.
“This was a mistake,” I hiss as he boxes me in.
Don’t push, Kenjington. Be the moral compass between us.
Chapter Four
Kenji
His bare chest rests beneath my palms, and the dim lighting in this room makes it feel more romantic than it should. We’re brothers—romance isn’t supposed to enter the equation. Ever. His skin brushes against mine. Not in an inappropriate way, but also, not in a way brothers look at each other.
It’s something I’ve fought all year.
The pull.
That’s untruthful. It’s been longer than a year—it only erupted the night I won the bet. The first win I’d followed through and reaped the benefits. Usually, I let them slide. It’s all fun and games until you want your brother to have your markings. Especially when it’s the only way he’s allowed to have them. Bets aren’t supposed to be too serious, even if they’ve ventured this way. The new one though? Killing Rusty… it feels wrong. Not because he isn’t a tool, but rather, for him not doing anything we didn’t push him into. He didn’t ask me to fuck him for my brother, not that he complained.
Jealousy rides my brother. It’s what burns behind his purple eyes, uncovering his truths. I feel it every time he forces a bet that makes me touch others. He knows it, he senses it, and refutes it just the same. Like the night I fucked Rusty on his bed, purposely choosing to use his bedroom to rile him up. He hates losing, but until that night, it didn’t dawn on me he hated sharing me more. It’s obvious, not only in the way he made me orgasm, but in the way he wanted me to know I only did because he allowed it.
Without him, faking it would have been my only option. Rusty didn’t do it for me. No one does.
Watching my brother study me as my eyes roam him effervescently, I groan, unable to contain it any longer. My fingers dig into the inked torso that would match mine if not for tattoos, nipple piercings, and that fucking freckle that I have every intention to lick.
My brother’s body is a masterpiece. Head to toe, he’s everything I’ve wanted. His tatted arms, hips, the script under his right arm. I am already dead. It’s something I’ve always wanted to know the meaning of. He’s not talkative about those things, or really anything to me. But the best part of his beautiful body: the tattoo I’d rightfully won, it resides over his heart like we wagered. In reality,
