Page 40 of Psycho Boys

His legs tense as he empties himself deep inside of me, and his hold on my tits gets harder, holding them in place as I frantically bounce up and down as fast and hard as I can, trying to get myself over the edge I've been teetering on for the last few minutes. When I finally do, I soak him. The damn breaks and I completely unravel, choking him almost as hard as Ash choked me, but I know Dom can take it.

Letting go of my tits, Dom slaps my ass and roughly squeezes my cheeks, spreading them apart and using them to guide me up and down on him, helping me ride out the wave of pleasure surging through me. My head drops, and a jolt of electricity shocks me to my core right before I collapse on top of him, his cock still buried inside me as we lay here panting, trying to catch our breath.

All of a sudden, just as my heartrate begins to return to normal, Dom says something that immediately gets my blood boiling and nothing but revenge front and center in my mind.

"So... My father called me tonight. Actually, all of our fathers called us tonight."

FIFTEEN

PLANNING

JUNEAU: FUNERAL FOR A FRIEND

DOMINIC

Atorrent of words poured from me, leaving a bitter taste in my mouth. My palms slickened, and my legs jittered uncontrollably. Panic seized me, a vice around my gut, as if someone were cruelly twisting my insides.

I had hoped our fathers were finally behind us. Since their brutal attack months ago, silence had reigned—no calls, texts, nothing. I knew it was too good to be true, yet a fragile hope flickered that chapter of our lives was closed, despite the lack of closure. That hope shattered with tonight's phone calls.

If only one of us had received a call, I might have dismissed it as a coincidence. But Ash, Killian, and I all heard from our fathers. It meant only one thing: they knew we were back, and they were ready to resume their reign of terror.

It was them or us, and I'd be damned if I let my life end at the hands of the man who had tormented me since birth. No. We wouldn't let that happen. Cali, especially, wouldn't allow it.Even amidst her own turmoil, she'd put her own revenge aside to ensure our safety.

That's the kind of person she is. Despite her burdens, she prioritizes those she loves—which isn't many at all. Now, it's our turn to show her the same unwavering support. We'd die for her in a heartbeat. I'd gladly bear her pain and lift her burdens so she wouldn't have to live on edge, constantly looking over her shoulder. I'd do anything for her, though I fear she doesn't truly believe it.

Would you believe someone would shoulder all your pain? Especially if you'd spent your life feeling unloved, unwanted, or alone? Could Calista, with her history, truly believe such a thing? Probably not. And yet, I can't blame her. We have one way to prove our devotion: to show her, not just tell her.

Her hand on my knee pulls me from my spiraling thoughts. Her heartbroken expression, tears threatening to fall yet held back by her fierce spirit, speaks volumes. Her weak smile, failing to reach her eyes, tells me she understands. Fuck, I understand too.

I intertwine our fingers; like a puzzle piece, it's the perfect fit, a silent reassurance that she feels instantly. A gentle squeeze conveys what words cannot, just like so many other times when we were unable to find the right thing to say.

"What did he want, Dominic?" she asks, her full namimg me, a declaration of seriousness.

I sigh, searching for the right words, but they tumble out raw and emotionless. "Umm... Well... What he always wants—for me to go see him, to talk."

"No. Absolutely fucking not," she snaps, her squeeze mirroring her anger, transforming her into the "Little Psycho" we all adore.

"Calista, love, you?—"

She cuts me off, rising to her feet to light another cigarette, pacing restlessly. Her gaze fixed on the rain-lashed window. "The next time you see your fucking fathers is when we fucking kill them. And Dominic, this shit isn't up for debate. You need to reclaim your lives, your power, and your fucking minds. They've controlled your asses for too fucking long. This shit, it ends now."

The storm outside mirrors the one raging within her—within us. Each raindrop hammers against the glass, echoing my frantic heartbeat. Her words, sharp and clear, cut through my anxiety. She's right. We've allowed them to control us for far too long. This time, it fucking ends.

"But how?" I whisper, the question heavy with years of fear and manipulation.

How do you fight a lifetime of ingrained terror? How do you rebuild when your very foundation is poisoned?

Calista stops pacing, her cigarette burning steadily. Her usually bright eyes now hold a fierce determination that both terrifies and comforts me.

"We plan," she says, her voice low and dangerous. "We gather information. We prepare. And then," she pauses, her gaze hardening, "we fucking strike." She kneels, our eyes meet, and her hand finds mine again, giving another firm squeeze. "We do this shit together," she whispers, her voice barely audible above the rain. "All of us. For each other."

The unspoken promise hangs in the air—loyalty, unwavering support. It isn't just revenge; it's about reclaiming our lives, our power, and our futures. Breaking free from the traumatic past and forging a new path together. Fear remains, a cold knot, but overshadowed by a burgeoning hope, fueled by Calista's strength and our unbreakable bond.

The first step: discovering our fathers' intentions this time. What information do they have? What leverage? We needanswers, and we need them now. The rain continues to fall, washing away the grime of our past and preparing the ground for the battle to come. The fight for our lives, our freedom, and our future has officially begun.

The next morningdawns grey and sullen, mirroring the heavy weight in my chest. The adrenaline from last night has faded, leaving behind a gnawing unease. Ash and Killian arrive shortly after I wake up, returning from who knows where with coffee we all desperately need, their faces etched with the same grim determination as Calista's. The unspoken agreement hangs heavy between us—no more running, no more hiding. This time, we fucking fight. Five is off talking to his people about the underground and if anyone has been around asking about us.

Our first step is information gathering. We start with the obvious—our phones. Each call had been brief, cryptic, and laced with threats veiled in false concern. There was no specific demand, no clear objective beyond the unsettling implication that they knew where we were. This isn't a random act; it's calculated and precise. They’re playing a dangerous game, and we are still the fucking pawns.

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