Page 35 of Psycho Pack

Sixteen Years Ago…

The grandfather clockin the foyer strikes noon, its deep resonance echoing through the empty halls of our ancestral estate. I stand at my usual post at the top of the grand staircase, watching dust motes dance in the shafts of autumn light streaming through the tall windows. The marble floors below gleam like polished mirrors, reflecting the crimson and gold of falling leaves outside.

This is my favorite spot to observe my father's comings and goings without being seen. From here, I can gauge his mood before he notices me—whether he's drunk, angry, or in one of his rare amenable states. It's a survival skill I've honed over the years.

The heavy oak door groans open on its ancient hinges, spilling late autumn sunlight across the polished marble floor. My father's boots ring against stone as he strides in, but something's different today.

A shadow trails behind him.

I freeze, my hand tightening on the ornate railing until my knuckles turn white. The shadow resolves into a boy, though he towers over me despite looking around my age. His shoulders span impossibly wide, muscles rippling beneath a too-small shirt and standard-issue military coat that's seen better days. A dirty dark blue bandana covers the lower half of his face, but he keeps reaching up to adjust it with hands that could crush stone.

Those hands draw my attention. They're scarred and calloused, yet they move with an odd delicacy, like he's terrified of breaking everything he touches. His fingers brush against the doorframe as he enters, testing its solidity.

"Thane." My father's voice cracks like a whip through the still air. His eyes find me instantly—they always do. "Come down here."

I descend slowly, counting each step as I study our visitor. Seventeen stairs. I know because I've counted them thousands of times, usually while trying to guess my father's mood.

Today, his face gives nothing away, but there's a gleam in his eyes I don't like.

The kind he gets when he's acquired a new weapon.

The boy won't look up, keeping his head bowed and shoulders hunched as if trying to fold his massive frame smaller. His gaze darts around the room, mapping exits, checking corners—the habits of someone used to being hunted. But I catch glimpses of intense blue eyes beneath his dark messy hair, filled with such raw agony it's hard to make eye contact with him.

Not that he's trying, either.

"This is your new brother," my father announces. "His name is Wraith."

No explanation.

No background.

Just another decree I'm meant to accept without question, like everything else in this house.

The boy flinches at the words "brother" and "Wraith," but otherwise remains motionless. Up close, I see the edges of scarring on his cheeks and over his eye peeking out from beneath the bandana. Whatever happened to his face, he's trying to hide it.

Is that why his name is Wraith?

Seems pretty damn cruel.

"Take him to the east wing," Father orders. "Show him his room."

I'm beyond confused, but it's not the first time he's done something unexpected if not insane without explaining anything, and I know it won't be the last. So I nod, gesturing for the boy to follow. He moves with unnatural grace for someone so large, each step carefully measured. Like he's afraid of breaking the floor beneath his bare feet.

The servants scatter as we pass, pressing themselves against walls and ducking into doorways. Their fearful whispers follow us up the stairs.

"Did you see the size of him?"

"Those scars..."

"What kind of monster..."

The boy's shoulders hunch further with each word.

I walk faster, leading him away from their cruel murmurs. The east wing stretches before us, a maze of closed doors and shadowed alcoves.

Perfect for hiding.

"This one's yours," I say, pushing open the door to an unused bedroom. He hesitates at the threshold, those blue eyes scanning every corner before he inches inside. His huge hands drift over everything—the bedpost, the curtains, the dresser—mapping his new territory through careful contact.

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