Page 110 of The Psychopaths

“Aw, are you mad your plan didn’t work out as you intended? Mad that I didn’t fall at her feet and apologize? What exactly is it that you’re upset about? Because from where I’m standing, it sounds like you’re developing feelings.”

“I’m going to kill you,” Arson says, voice suddenly calm, terrifyingly matter-of-fact. “Not today. Not quickly. But I promise you, before this is over, you will beg for death.”

The clinical certainty in Arson’s tone sends ice through my veins. This isn’t bluster or performance. This is a promise, plain and simple.

Aries’s smile is equally chilling. “Do your worst. I’ll be here whenever you’re ready. Just remember we both know which one of us was made to survive.”

I finally force myself to move, steps quickening as I flee down the corridor, their voices fading behind me. My mind reels, trying to process everything—Aries’s cruelty, Arson’s unexpected protectiveness, the violence simmering between them that seems destined to end only when one of them is dead.

I reach the stairs, leaning heavily against the wall as my legs threaten to give out. The truth settles over me like a shroud—there are no heroes in this story. No noble protectors. No redemption waiting in the wings.

Just two broken men, shaped by the same trauma into different monsters. And me, caught between them, no longer a pawn, perhaps, but still very much in danger of being consumed by their mutual destruction.

The strangest part isn’t Aries’s betrayal or Arson’s unexpected care. It’s the realization that despite everything—despite the manipulation, the violence, the using—I’m not running away. Not planning my escape. Because somewhere along the way, I’ve become as broken as they are. As unable to walk away from this darkness they’ve pulled me into.

As complicit in whatever happens next.

Arson

Imaintain my distance as she processes what happened with Aries. Twenty-four hours of careful avoidance—bringing her food but not sharing a meal, checking security systems while she sleeps, working in the outer rooms when she’s awake.

Clinical. Efficient. Removed.

I can’t even count how many times I’ve told myself it’s better this way. Distance protects us both from the bond that started to form in the shower and bed. From the unexpected tenderness that threatens years of carefully cultivated hatred. From the uncomfortable realization that I’ve come to care about what happens to her. I hate it. I hate that I’ve used her, that I allowed my brother to hurt her and made her a pawn in a war she had nothing to do with.

She spends most of the day in bed, curled away from the door, sometimes sleeping, sometimes staring at the wall.Processing. Mourning.Coming to terms with the death of a fantasy she’s carried for years.

I recognize the stillness and the careful conservation of energy. I perfected it in the institution—this method of rebuilding internal defenses after they’ve been shattered. So Igive her space. Give her time. More consideration than I’ve shown anyone in years.

By the morning of the second day, I can tell something has changed. She emerges from the bedroom while I’m reviewing surveillance footage, hair damp from a shower, wearing my clothes still but with a new determination in her posture. The broken girl from yesterday has disappeared.

“We need to talk,” she says, voice steady despite the lingering shadows under her eyes.

I close the laptop, giving her my full attention while maintaining physical distance. “About?”

“What happens next?” She sits across from me at the small table, hands folded precisely on its surface. “What is the plan now that Aries is secure again?”

“I’m sorry, but there is no‘we’in this discussion,” I say, keeping my voice neutral. “You’ve seen what happens whenyouget involved. It’s better if you focus on recovering.”

Her eyes narrow. “I’m involved. Have been since the moment I recognized you weren’t Aries at that party. Since I found Mother’s files. Since we had sex.”

“A series of mistakes,” I counter, “that won’t be repeated.”

“Mistakes?” She leans forward as if she didn’t hear me correctly. “Is that what you call what happened between us?”

This is dangerous territory. Uncomfortable, I stand, putting more distance between us. “What happened was the result of chemicals, adrenaline, and poor judgment. Nothing more.”

The lie tastes bitter, but necessary. Whatever connection formed between us in those hours of tenderness is a vulnerability I can’t afford to acknowledge. Not now. Not with everything finally falling into place.

“That’s bullshit, and you know it.” Her directness surprises me. “Something changed between us. I felt it, and I know you felt it, too.”

“The only thing that’s changed,” I say coldly, “is that you’ve finally seen Aries for the piece of shit he is. Don’t mistake my gratitude for something deeper, Lilian. It’s beneath both of us.”

“Gratitude?” She stands, matching my movement, refusing to be physically dominated even as I tower over her. “You think that’s what this is about?”

“I think you’ve had your illusions about one brother shattered.” I do my best to keep all emotion out of my voice. “And now you’re transferring those feelings to the other. It’s basic psychology.”

She laughs, but the sound holds no humor. “For someone so observant, you can be remarkably blind when it suits you.”

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