Page 22 of Psycho Gods

She pointed again like I needed the reminder that I was sandwiched beside my enemies in a claustrophobic room meant for two people.

I refused to turn my head because I’d seen enough: freakishly wide shoulders, long pale fingers, callous demeanors, warm brown eyes, cheeks that blushed pink as they betrayed me. Three disturbingly handsome faces.

The problem had never been their looks.

“Um—” I broke out into a coughing fit.

The tension in the room increased tenfold as everyone focused on me. I would have been embarrassed, but I’d stopped feeling anything meaningful ten years ago.

I’d stopped feeling anything at all last week in the war camp.

Dick had spoken, and the lies had crumbled.

The truth—ancient peace accords—was a heinous beast.

Now Dr. Palmer handed me a half-filled cup of lukewarm water, and I gulped it down until I choked.

Liquid spilled onto my shirt.

Orion patted my back, and I flinched away from his touch. He made a soft, wounded sound as he pulled his hand away.

The air conditioning buzzed loudly.

A gust of wind slammed rain against the side of the building with splatter.

I focused all my attention on choking to death on the water—vexingly, it didn’t work, so I redirected my concentration into slouching my shoulders until I was concave.

Placing the half-empty water cup by my feet on the once white but now light-brown carpet, I pretended not to notice that Dr. Palmer scowled at it like she knew I was going to forget to pick it up.

I cleared my throat three times.

Coughed.

Wet my lips.

“Aran, please take all the time you need.” Her mouth said one thing, but her narrowed eyes and pinched lips said another.

“Okay.” My voice sounded far away, and it felt like someone else was speaking.

Her right eye twitched. One. Two. Three. Four times.

I rotted on the couch.

“Aran.” Dr. Palmer snapped her fingers twice in rapid succession, and it sounded like a gunshot.

I sat up with a start.

She pointed her pen at me.

A weapon.

You could puncture someone’s corneal artery with a pen. You could gouge someone’s eyes out. You could shank them in the stomach.

“Aran,” Dr. Palmer said harshly.

I blurted, “Yes—I hate my mates. In fact, they disgust me.” I stuck my tongue out and pointed my finger at it while I gagged, just in case she wasn’t picking up what I was putting down.

The good (annoying) doctor wrote something down on her clipboard and nodded as my eyes grew heavier.

---