Page 281 of Psycho Pack

I watch as Wraith carefully disarms the tripwire, his hands surprisingly delicate as he works. The skills our father drilled into us being used against him. There's a certain poetry to it. As he works, the faint sounds of music—always easygoing jazz—filters through the hallway from a phonograph.

And I know exactly how long that particular record is.

Our father used to like to put it on in his study before dinner so we knew how long we had to be on perfect behavior. Wraith tenses next to me, and I know he's hearing the same thing. Know he's having flashbacks to those stressful nights, wishing he was anywhere else as he withered under our father's stern gaze, trying in vain to eat with good manners despite his jaws.

He always wanted to please our father.

Always wanted to be accepted.

The thought makes my throat even tighter.

We find three more traps as we ascend. A pressure plate, another tripwire, and what looks like a makeshift claymore rigged to the banister. The soldier outside wasn't kidding.

We dismantle each one with deliberate noise.

I want him to hear us coming.

Want him to know that we're taking down his carefully laid defenses one by one.

The heavy oak door to his study looms before us at the end of the hall. Two bronze lion's head door knockers stare at us with empty yet baleful eyes, their jaws slightly slack around the rings hanging from their teeth. Light spills from beneath the door, along with the faint smell of expensive cigars and that damn song I always hated most.

Some things never change.

Wraith looks at me, those intense blue eyes asking a silent question.Are we really doing this?

I nod firmly.

There's no turning back now.

My brother tenses beside me as we approach the study. Neither of us bothers to move quietly anymore. Let him hear our filthy boots on his manicured carpets. Let him know death is coming for him, wrapped in the flesh of his own blood.

He should have known this day would come. But our father never was good at seeing his sons as anything more than tools to be used.

That ends tonight.

I pause outside the study door, memories washing over me. How many times did I stand in this exact spot as a boy, gathering courage to face his disappointment? How many times did Wraith and I huddle here, nursing fresh bruises from another training session gone too far?

But we're not kids anymore.

We're not afraid anymore.

We have something worth dying for.

Worth killing for.

The thought of Ivy steels my resolve. This isn't just about revenge or justice. It's about making sure she—and every omegalike her—never has to live in fear again. The system our father helped build and maintain has to fall.

Starting with him.

I pull my tactical shotgun off my back, nodding to Wraith. We kick in the door together, the heavy reinforced oak splintering under our combined force. Jazz music blooms into the hallway, an eerie soundtrack for what's about to unfold.

I'm expecting another bloodbath, more traps, a final violent stand. But General Hargrove is simply sitting behind his massive mahogany desk, smoking one of his expensive cigars. He's wearing his uniform, his medals shining in the low light from his desk lamp, and he looks like a king on his throne. Calm and regal, rather than a man about to face execution.

He has our grandfather's revolver, too. The glint of the silver barrel catches my eye. The gun is sitting on his desk, close enough for him to reach it easily. But he isn't making any motion to grab it. Not even the twitch of a finger.

"I thought you'd have gotten here sooner," he says with a derisive scoff, smoke curling from his lips.

A laugh escapes me before I can stop it. "Critical even now?"

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