Page 202 of Psycho Devils: Aran's Story 2

The girl who’d fucked her friend as punishment.

A woman’s upper lip curled.

A man whispered something derogatory.

My worst sin of all—I’d lived and fought beside the men that every woman and man at the academy would kill to have associated with their name.

Everyone who attended the academy was powerful. Most had been sent with specific instructions to make allegiances that increased their families’ standing. An assassin recruit was the ultimate prize.

The kings were the crème de la crème of the academy.

I hadn’t realized how important they were until I’d started paying attention to the student gossip. How I’d managed to miss the millions of conversations about the “most powerful devils in all the realms” was a mystery to me.

It was probably the depression.

It always was.

I missed the days where I thought they were just fae men.

Ignorance was bliss; knowledge was suffering.

People sighed and fluttered their lashes at the kings, then turned to glare at me. Their stares had gotten noticeably colder after the punishment with John.

Just another slut.

Competition.

They didn’t know about my plans to die alone.

Students stuck their noses up at my shitty appearance. In their business casual wardrobes, breasts were pushed high and shirts were worn a size too small so they stretched tightly across male chests.

The students oozed sexuality.

My teammates oozed strength and power.

I oozed blood because I accidentally ripped the scab off my lips again.

They wanted the power, and my roommates wanted to fuck; it was a perfect symbiotic relationship.

And I wanted inner peace, hard drugs, and a ten-day vacation on a fae beach.

Yet I was in the middle of it all.

The students thought I was interfering with their prizes.

A royal woman in a stunning wrap dress bumped into me and staggered back with disgust, brow arched and nose wrinkled.

I grinned at her and flashed all my teeth.

She recoiled with horror.

A lifetime ago, shopping and dressing up had filled me with joy, but now I could barely remember what it was like to feel polished and proud of how I looked.

I wiped sticky curls off my forehead and shivered in my sweat-soaked skin. My fingers were covered in dirt from where I’d collapsed onto all fours after the run.

My nails were black with grime.

They matched my soul.

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