Page 277 of Psycho Devils: Aran's Story 2

“No.” I opened my eyes. “I didn’t say you could stop.”

John licked his full bottom lip and grinned. “What do I get in return?”

“We’ll strike a deal.” I slapped at his limp fingers to try to get him to start massaging again. “You give me a head massage every day, and I’ll laugh at all your bad jokes.”

John slapped me back. “But you already do that?” He whined. “I need a better reward. How about you massage me back?”

I shook my head. “We both know you stink half the time and are too tired to shower. No way am I touching your nasty, sweaty ass. At least I’m always clean.”

John trembled dramatically. He threw his shoulders back like he was taking multiple bullets to the chest, then he flopped backward onto the bed. “How you wound me.”

I rolled out of the way and narrowly avoided being crushed.

What I didn’t say was that I low-key loved the scent of John’s natural musk.

After a long day of training, with adorably, messy hair, he always collapsed into bed with a grin while reeking of sandalwood and salt.

John chilled and went with the flow, and sometimes that meant falling asleep without showering.

Not relatable.

My smile faltered, and I picked at my lip.

I didn’t shower to be clean. I showered because I was covered in a grime that no amount of scrubbing could get rid of.

Also, I enjoyed singing moodily under the spray.

The demons had once walked in on me making up a song and we’d mutually agreed to never speak of it again. Since I’d gone off on a lyrical tangent and had rhymed “dying alone” with “traffic cone” it was probably for the best.

Some things were better not discussed.

Now John popped up above me and pulled my fingers gently away from my lip. He nudged my shoulder and asked, “What does the Greek symbol ligma stand for?”

I raked through my knowledge of the Greek alphabet. I couldn’t recall anything. “I don’t know. What?”

John’s smile was blinding. “Ligma balls.”

My eye twitched.

This was why everyone hated humans.

“That’s the stupidest”—I punched him in the gut—“joke I’ve heard in my life.”

He chortled. “I’m not the idiot who fell for it.”

He punched me back lazily like a cat playing with its favorite mouse.

With renewed vigor, I tried to get him in a chokehold, but he laughed and easily evaded my grasp.

We rolled around on the bed.

“Knock it off!” Malum ordered.

John and I stilled.

The raspy command was disturbingly loud in the quiet bedroom.

“Everyone, up.” Malum stalked half-naked across the room—layers upon layers of back muscle rippled—he flung the bathroom door shut.

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