Page 19 of Claimed By the Psychos
The VIP lounge door looms ahead like the entrance to hell, made from dark wood and brass fittings that gleam like gold teeth. I push it open with hands that have killed senators and common criminals alike, revealing the chamber where Felix waits.
He's arranged himself on the velvet throne like a king holding court, legs crossed, fingers steepled, looking every inch the powerful alpha who deals in souls and flesh they expect to meet. The resemblance to Evan digs into me like a knife. It's the same predatory stillness, the same casual cruelty in his posture.
But the eyes. The eyes are different, even if they're nearly the same color. Evan's eyes were empty holes where a soul should be. Felix's burn with cold fire, silver flames that see everything and judge nothing. You can't hide the soul, no matter how good the mask. No matter how flawless the performance is.
And my Felix…heis a good actor.
The four alphas file into the room like they're walking into a trap, which they are, just not the one they think they've set. This isn't the board they think they control. I slip in behind them quiet as a shadow, my hand finding the door handle.
The lock clicks with a sound like breaking bones.
Chapter
Eight
CARLISLE
The omega's touch burns against my skin like liquid fire. Usually, physical contact with strangers feels like static electricity—mildly irritating, easily dismissed. This is different. This is... electric. Alive. The sensation lingers even after she pulls away, phantom fingers trailing across my fingertips where hers brushed them.
Fascinating.
I watch her through half-lidded eyes as she moves ahead of us, that pink slip swaying with each step like a pendulum counting down to something delicious. The fabric clings to soft curves on a delicate frame.
But it's not just her body that captures my attention. It's the way she moves—fluid one moment, jerky the next, like a little rabbit ready to bolt at the faintest sign of a threat. There's something broken about her, something fractured that shows in the tilt of her head and the way her fingers flutter against her thighs.
The others follow behind me, their discomfort so plain it make me want to laugh. Poor little soldiers, so out of their element in this den of sin and silk. Archer keeps shootingworried glances at the omega, that savior complex of his already kicking into overdrive. Bane's jaw is clenched tight enough to crack teeth, and Elias moves with the usual control, but fraying around the edges.
Me? I'm enjoying the show.
The omega stumbled when I handed her that invitation. Just for a moment, her pupils dilated and her breathing hitched, like she'd seen something that shouldn't exist. Most people look at me and see exactly what I want them to see—charming, harmless, perhaps a bit eccentric. The mask holds because I've perfected it over decades of practice.
But those hazel eyes... those hazel eyes saw something else entirely. Something real. As if the little rabbit knows she's in the presence of a wolf.
How delightfully perceptive.
The corridors we're walking through reek of artificial pheromones, the kind of cocktail designed to make omegas pliant and alphas stupid. It's working on my companions. I can smell their arousal mixing with their moral outrage, creating a bouquet that has them all transfixed on this omega leading us deeper into this maze.
She stops at a heavy wooden door that screams expensive, her hand trembling slightly as she reaches for the handle. There's something almost ritualistic about the way she pauses, like she's gathering courage for what comes next.
The door swings open to reveal a room that belongs in a Victorian brothel, with its velvet and brass and shadows that seem to move independently of their light sources. And there, seated on what can only be described as a throne, is our host.
He's beautiful in the way predators are beautiful—sleek, dangerous, perfectly designed for what he does. Dark hair pulled back to show the sharp angles of his face, silver eyes thatmiss nothing, and a body that speaks of violence wrapped in expensive silk.
But there's something off about him, something that doesn't quite fit the role he's playing. The way he holds himself is too controlled, too careful. Like he's performing a part he's studied but never lived. Interesting.
Because I know a fellow monster when I see one.
The omega slips in behind us, and I hear the soft click of the lock engaging. Such a subtle sound, but it sends a thrill down my spine. We're trapped now, all of us, in this little theater of lies.
"Gentlemen," the man says, rising from his throne with liquid grace. His voice is cultured, educated, with just a hint of an accent I can't place. That alone is suspicious. "Welcome. I'm Jonas King."
Jonas King. What a wonderfully obvious alias. I almost want to applaud the lack of creativity.
He gestures to the plush seating arranged around a low table laden with crystal decanters and expensive cigars. "Please, make yourselves comfortable."
Bane takes the lead, as he always does, settling into a chair that groans under his bulk. The rest of us follow suit, though I notice the good doctor positioning himself with clear sightlines to both the door and our host.
"Why don't you get us some drinks, sweetheart?" Jonas says to the omega, his tone casual but commanding.
