Page 121 of Psycho Devils: Aran's Story 2

Someone had moved us both. I was tangled with Orion and Scorpius in our bed. I pulled the sheets back, and Orion’s wounds were partially healed. Someone had stitched up all my wounds. Both my mates were safe, and my Revered looked much better.

He snored softly and cuddled both of us closer.

Relief hit me like a bullet.

The invisible pressure evaporated off my chest, and I relaxed into the soft mattress and rolled over.

But the tension returned as I looked around the room.

The demons were in their usual bed, but that wasn’t what made me stiffen.

No, I was taut because of what was happening in the other bed.

Arabella was sprawled across John’s naked chest, and the fucker was propped up on his pillows, holding her. She was covered in stitches and looked a million times better than the last time I’d seen her.

John scowled at me and nuzzled the top of her head.

He shouldn’t have been the one to fix her. She is ours.

I didn’t consciously make the choice to move, but suddenly I was across the room, ripping Arabella out of John’s embrace.

She dared to sleep in his arms while wearing his sweatshirt when she was our slave? After everything we’d been through, she taunted us with her promiscuity.

A small, rational part of me understood my thoughts made no sense.

I knew the brand on my hip was addling my brain.

But knowing didn’t make a difference.

I was so angry that I almost missed the fact that Arabella wasn’t just stitched up; she was also clean.

She scrambled out of bed in John’s sweatshirt.

Had they showered together?

I saw red and stalked her across the room like a wild animal. Seethed as she locked the door and ignored me.

Calmed myself by punching John.

Finally, Arabella emerged from the bathroom with a bored expression on her face. Like she was completely apathetic to having almost died. Like she didn’t care that she’d touched another man.

It made me homicidal.

She walked by and Orion’s scent filled my nose. My lips curled upward, and satisfaction warmed my blood. She was wearing my Revered’s sweatshirt.

For some unfathomable reason, I liked that she was wearing his clothes. I really liked it. Unacceptable. She’s a disgrace.

I forced my lips downward.

Scowled.

Focused on my anger. The emotion grew as I followed her and John down the hall.

Students stared up at our table. Tongues moved, heads bent close, and fingers pointed. They gawked at us.

She looked terrible, and everyone was whispering about it.

Even the other legions abandoned the pretense of eating and gawked at her.

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