Total pages in book: 131
Estimated words: 123575 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 618(@200wpm)___ 494(@250wpm)___ 412(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 123575 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 618(@200wpm)___ 494(@250wpm)___ 412(@300wpm)
His eyes narrow, scanning the cell for evidence of tampering. I force myself to remain relaxed, casual, though every muscle is tensed for flight or fight.
“Lilian, stay here,” he orders, not looking at her. “I need to check the main control panel.”
She nods, but her eyes never leave me. There’s something in her gaze—concern, relief at seeing me relatively unharmed, and something else. Something that makes my chest tighten.
The moment Arson disappears from view, she steps closer to the glass. Her lips form words I can’t hear through the barrier and alarms.
I move toward the window, careful to stay away from my hidden breach. Water streams down my face, soaking my shirt and and pooling around my feet. Through the glass, I can see she’s not much drier, the borrowed shirt clinging to her curves in a way that makes my throat go dry despite the water everywhere.
Arson reappears before we can communicate, his expression thunderous. He studies me through the glass, eyes moving methodically around my cell. Looking for what I’ve done. How I’ve compromised his perfect system.
Time to distract him.
I grin, slow and deliberate, then offer a casual shrug as if to say: What can you do? The gesture is calculated to infuriate him—dismissive and unconcerned despite the chaos I’ve clearly caused.His jaw tightens visibly. Behind him, Lilian watches our silent exchange, her expression torn between fascination and fear.
Good. Let him focus on me. On this challenge to his authority. Not searching for how I triggered the system.
Because next time, I won’t just set off alarms.
Next time, I’ll walk right out that door and take her with me.
The sprinklers continue their relentless downpour, soaking everything. Maintaining eye contact with my brother, I reach for the hem of my sodden shirt and peel it slowly upward, revealing the body that mirrors his own. Every movement is deliberate, unhurried.
Arson’s eyes narrow, understanding exactly what I’m doing.
I toss the shirt aside with theatrical carelessness, letting it slap wetly against the floor. Water streams down my chest, following the contours of muscles that have grown leaner but no less defined during my captivity. I’ve made sure of that, using the limited space to maintain my strength, preparing for this moment.
Through the glass, I see Lilian’s expression shift. Her eyes track the movement of water down my torso, a flush rising to her cheeks that has nothing to do with the alarm’s red glow. Does she look at him the same way? Does she notice we’re identical, yet fundamentally different?
I stretch, rolling my shoulders as if simply relieving tension. Every motion is calculated to remind both of them that Arson and I share the same form. The same genetic blueprint. The same potential for attraction.
The soap dish beside my small sink is still intact. I reach for the bar of institutional soap, turning it slowly in my hands. Arson’s jaw tightens further as he realizes what’s coming next.
With deliberate sensuality, I begin to wash. Hands moving in slow circles across my chest, down my abdomen. Nothing overtly sexual—just a man cleaning himself—but the subtext is unmistakable.
Look at me, my actions say.
Remember, we’re identical.
Whatever he offers, I can match, but I can do it better.
Lilian can’t seem to look away, her lips slightly parted. I see Arson notice her reaction, see the muscle in his cheek jump with suppressed fury.
This is how we’ve always fought—not with fists but with psychological warfare. Finding weaknesses, then exploiting them mercilessly. The difference is, now the stakes involve more than brotherly rivalry.
Soap suds mix with sprinkler water, sliding down my skin in rivulets. I maintain eye contact with my brother as I wash my neck, my shoulders, and down my arms. The same arms that could hold her. The same hands that could touch her.
You’re not special, every movement tells him. You’re just a copy. A reflection. Whatever claim you think you have on her isn’t unique. I had her first, and I’ll be the one who gets to walk away with her.
His expression darkens to something dangerous. Good. An angry Arson makes mistakes. And I only need one mistake to end this game.
I turn slightly, presenting my profile while continuing my impromptu shower. The movement places me directly under the brightest emergency light, highlighting the differences between us—my skin is smooth where his is scarred. Visual proof of our divergent paths.
A reminder that beneath identical exteriors lie very different men.
Arson’s reaction is immediate and visceral. His hand locks around Lilian’s wrist, yanking her back from the glass where she’s been watching me with undisguised fascination, to face him. The movement is possessive, territorial—claiming what he considers his.
The speaker flicks on again.
“Is this what you want? Is this what your little rebellion is about? Because from where I’m standing, she seems to be mine... All mine.”
“Enjoying the show?” he asks her, loud enough for the intercom to carry his voice to me. His eyes never leave mine as his hand moves higher beneath the shirt, making her gasp.