Page 113 of Psycho Devils: Aran's Story 2

A flaming arm clotheslined him.

He choked and stumbled backward, then fell to his knees on the floor. “What the hell is wrong with you?” he asked Malum in between gasps for air.

The three kings stood in the middle of the room, and all their attention was on me.

“Take it off,” Orion mouthed and gestured at my sweatshirt.

I rubbed the blurriness out of my eyes and asked with confusion, “What?”

Orion was covered in bruises and stitches and didn’t look well. His golden skin was pallid, and he was panting loudly from the exertion of standing upright.

His lips were flat lines as he mouthed, “You’re ours. You don’t wear another man’s clothes.”

Oh, it all made sense.

The kings were lunatics.

Frankly, I was too depressed to deal with them.

Malum’s flames shot higher in the air. “Take it off now or I’ll burn it off you. Slave.”

There was that charming personality.

“No,” John growled from the floor as he massaged his throat.

Flames screamed in the fireplace. Curtains blew dramatically because the stained-glass windows were opened wide, presumably to help with the stench.

I’d have recommended a flower-scented perfume if I’d thought it would help.

I didn’t bother to respond.

You couldn’t reason with crazy.

Pressing my palms against my eyes, I crawled off the bed and stomped past the kings into the bathroom. My limbs ached, and I swore I could feel the blood rushing through my abused arteries.

I was in too much pain for their games.

Not that they’d ever see me flinch.

I donned the stony mask of the fae queen and stepped around the bloody pads and piles of gore that covered the carpet. The bedroom was still a crime scene.

“What are you doing? We ordered you to take that sweatshirt off,” Malum snarled and stomped after me.

I slammed the bathroom door in his face.

Turned the lock.

I leaned against the bathroom counter and splashed cold water on my cheeks. Grabbed the toothbrush with my name engraved on it and scrubbed at my teeth until my gums bled.

Wiping my face clean, I winced at the tender green bruises that covered my face like a bad camouflage. A long, stitched-up gash sliced underneath my left eye.

Turquoise curls stuck out around my head in every direction.

Two black eyes completed the look.

I’d seen wanted posters for insane escaped prisoners that looked better than I did.

A foggy memory of landing face-first on grass played in the back of my mind, and manic laughter bubbled up my throat.

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