Page 280 of Psycho Pack

The constant pressure to be perfect.

To be worthy of the Hargrove name.

And now we're going to tear it all down.

Wraith's soft growl draws my attention. When I look at him, I see the same memories reflected in his intense blue eyes. The pain. The way our father stood by and watched it all, treating his own sons like assets to be weaponized. But there's something else in his gaze I can't find anywhere in myself, no matter how hard I search.

Remorse.

Understanding passes between us without words.

We both know what needs to be done.

I give him a sharp nod, which he returns. Then we move as one, ascending the steps to enter hell.

The massive oak doors aren't even locked. Our father's arrogance, even now, is staggering. The foyer is empty, our boots echoing on the marble floor as we enter. Everything looks exactly as I remember it. The crystal chandelier, the family portraits lining the walls, the fresh-cut flowers in their expensive vases.

Generation upon generation of Hargroves look down on us in judgment—all male alphas, of course—as we pass through.It's like stepping back in time. But we're not the same broken children who once walked these halls.

We're not here for redemption or reconciliation.

We're here to end this.

And I know exactly where he'll be.

The same study he practically lived in throughout our childhood, hiding behind mountains of paperwork and military strategy instead of being a father to his sons.

Wraith follows me through the silent house, both of us checking corners out of habit even though we know we won't find any guards in here. Our father always preferred to handle things personally.

I grab Wraith's shoulder just as he starts toward the stairs, pulling him back. Something doesn't feel right. Our father is many things, but careless isn't one of them.

Time to test my theory.

One of the heavy brass bookends on a nearby shelf stands out to me. A bust of our grandfather. I decide to test my theory. The metallic thud as it hits the third step is immediately followed by a deafening explosion. I yank Wraith behind a marble column as chunks of wood and plaster rain down around us.

My brother should have noticed that. Predicted it. And the fact that he didn't tells me exactly how shaken he is by what we're about to do.

Not that I can blame him.

This isn't just another mission.

This is patricide.

And to be fair, I'm the only one with this cursed bloodline running through my veins. A father trying to kill his children isn't something I have to wrap my head around. It's an easy assumption.

When the dust settles, I peer around the column to assess the damage. The stairs are partially destroyed, but there's enough left intact to proceed.

Still, the message is clear.

Our father isn't going down without a fight.

Wraith moves to take point, but freezes. His sharp eyes catch what I almost missed this time. A thin wire stretched across the remaining steps, barely visible in the dim light.

Another trap.

Like a series of deadly puzzles laid out by a paranoid old man.

Then again, is it really paranoia when someone actually is coming to kill you?

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