Page 192 of Psycho Beasts

We all sat together at the long dining table for the first time since we’d arrived at Xerxes’s mansion.

Aran sat next to me but was silent as she pushed her food around the plate.

Something had broken inside her, and I wondered if she’d ever be the same.

My stomach wouldn’t stop hurting for her.

The massive chandelier twinkled above us, its expensive crystals a sharp contrast to our sweatsuits, haggard appearances, and overall shitty lots in life.

The only person who looked at home sat at the helm of the table.

Slowly cutting his steak, back ramrod straight, suit impeccably tailored, the don was the picture of refinement.

He’d sent a letter in the morning, announcing he would be joining us for dinner.

Like some high-society maiden.

I’d voted that we send a letter back saying he wasn’t invited, but Jax had pointed out that he would probably still arrive and slaughter us violently.

I couldn’t make myself care.

Apparently, when Hunter had slammed his foot into my ribs until I’d prayed for death, something had shifted inside me.

Maybe it was the violence.

Maybe it was the pain.

Maybe it was the postapocalyptic landscape and the voice in my head.

Maybe it was the heinous word carved into my best friend’s back.

Maybe it was the sex.

Maybe it was the endless monotony of a stressful existence.

But I just couldn’t make myself care.

I wasn’t hungry, but I shoved three bread rolls into my mouth at once, cut a chunk of butter with my knife, then crammed it past my lips.

I chewed aggressively in the don’s direction, mouth open, daring him to make a comment.

The don arched his dark eyebrow at me and smiled like he had a secret as he took a sip of his wine.

He didn’t say anything.

I chewed harder.

If Walter noticed the awkward tension at the table, it didn’t affect him in the slightest, and he twitted about, filling glasses and helping the maids serve our five-course meal.

His bushy mustache quivered with excitement at his getting to host a formal dinner.

None of the girls seemed to have reservations about the don—their lack of survival instincts was highly concerning—and they talked animatedly about their first day of school.

They occasionally cast worried looks in Aran’s direction, but had stopped trying to talk to her when it was clear she had nothing to say.

Lucinda and Jala whispered to each other.

Since they were both more reserved and only two years apart in age, it wasn’t surprising that they’d grown so close.

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