Page 103 of The Psychopaths

His dead weight is substantial, but rage and determination give me the strength I need to drag him across the warehouse and into his cell. His heels leave trails in the water still pooled on the concrete, marking our path like bread crumbs.

I’ll need to clean that up. Secure everything again.

Fix what he broke.

Like always.

The cell door stands open, water still dripping from the sprinklers inside. I haul him over the threshold, dropping him with less care than I might show a sack of garbage. His head thunks against the concrete, adding another injury he’ll feel when he wakes up.

He deserves it. He deserves everything he’s going to get.

I move efficiently, muscle memory taking over as I secure him—ankle cuffs first, then wrists, connected by chains to the reinforced bolt I installed in the floor months ago. More restraints than before. No chance for escape this time.

I register the change in his breathing as I work, consciousness returning by degrees. I increase my pace, finishing the restraints before retrieving a syringe from the hidden compartment in the corridor. The clear liquid inside will keep him docile for hours—long enough for me to repair the security breach and to attend to Lilian and any injuries she might have.

The needle slides into his neck with practiced ease. His eyelids flutter as the sedative enters his bloodstream, a flicker of rage visible before the drugs pull him under again.

“Sleep well, Brother,” I murmur, checking the restraints one final time. “We’ll continue our discussion when you wake up.”

I step back, surveying my work with satisfaction. He’s secured more thoroughly than before, the chains allowing only minimal movement. Just enough to prevent muscle atrophy, but not enough to work on another escape.

Contained. Controlled. Mine once more.

The damage is easy to spot once I know what to look for—a ragged hole in the wall behind where the bed had been positioned, wires exposed and crossed to trigger the alarmsystem.Clever, if desperate.I underestimated his engineering knowledge, a mistake I won’t repeat. Water still pools on the floor, making repair work messier but not impossible.

I retrieve tools from my workshop upstairs, returning with a reinforced metal panel, screws, and an electric drill. The repair needs to be thorough and impossible to breach again without heavy equipment.

I position the panel over the hole, noting the blood on the concrete edges where his fingers tore at the surface. Another layer to our matched determination—his to escape, mine to contain. The drill whines as I secure the panel with heavy-duty screws, driving them deep into the concrete until the metal sits flush against the wall.

Once satisfied with the repair, I run my fingers along the edges, testing for any weakness.Nothing.Even knowing exactly where the breach was, I can barely detect it now.

I step back, surveying the cell one final time. Aries remains unconscious, chest rising and falling in the rhythm of drug-induced sleep. The chains glint in the harsh fluorescent light, a visual reminder of who holds the power now.

Satisfied, I close and lock the door, resetting all security protocols before heading back to where I left Lilian. She hasn’t moved, still curled into herself on the wet floor, vulnerable in her unconsciousness. The sight hits differently now, triggering something protective rather than possessive. Something that feels dangerously close to caring.

I kneel beside her, gently brushing strands of wet hair from her face. Blood has dried on her inner thighs, mixed with other fluids I don’t want to think about. Her skin bears the marks of our battle for possession—finger-shaped bruises, bite marks, and abrasions from the rough concrete.

“I’ve got you,” I murmur, though she can’t hear me.

As gently as possible, I slide one arm beneath her knees, the other supporting her back. I cradle her against my chest, and this strange rage consumes me at the lightness of her body. Her head falls naturally against my shoulder, breath warm against my neck. So light, so fragile in my arms. How could either of us have treated her with such brutality?

The question brings unwelcome self-reflection that I’m not ready to examine.

Instead, I focus on the immediate need—caring for her, cleaning her, ensuring she suffers no lasting physical damage from our violent claims.

The emotional trauma is beyond my capacity to address. Perhaps beyond anyone’s. Physically I can stitch her up, stop any bleeding, and make sure she is okay.

I carry her toward the stairs, movements careful to avoid jostling her. With each step, I feel something shifting inside me—priorities realigning, focus changing. Revenge suddenly seems less important than her well-being. A dangerous thought I can’t afford to entertain.

The master bathroom connects directly to my bedroom, designed with the same clinical efficiency as everything else in my space. I nudge the door open with my shoulder, careful not to bump Lilian’s head against the frame.

Steam fills the room as I turn on the shower with one hand, still cradling her against my chest. The water heats quickly, mist rising to fog the mirrors. I step under the spray with her still in my arms, ignoring the sting as hot water hits my own cuts and abrasions.

Her skin, pale and marked with evidence of our struggle, glistens as water cascades over us both. I lower her carefully until she’s sitting on the built-in bench, her head lolling against the tile wall. She looks smaller somehow, more vulnerable than I’ve ever seen her.

I retrieve shower gel—something expensive with hints of cedar I barely notice most days. The scent seems important now, a counterpoint to the metallic tang of blood and sex still clinging to her skin.

Starting with her shoulders, I work the lather across her body gently.

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