Page 104 of The Psychopaths

My hands, instruments of violence for so long, now move with careful precision, washing away the evidence of what we did to her.

Blood and other fluids swirl down the drain as I clean between her thighs, my touch clinical rather than sexual despite our nakedness. My own the tenderness surprises me, this unfamiliar urge to care rather than possess foreign.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper, though I’m not sure for what, exactly.

For using her against Aries? For the rough claiming? Or for something deeper—dragging her into this war between brothers that was never hers to fight?

Her eyelids flutter as consciousness begins returning, the drugs finally wearing off. I continue my ministrations, working shampoo through her hair, fingers massaging her scalp.

“Mmm,” she murmurs, leaning into my touch unconsciously.

I rinse the suds away, watching them disappear down the drain like the evidence of our violence. Clean. Reset. As if it never happened.

Her eyes open slowly, unfocused at first, then sharpening as they land on my face.

“Aries?” she whispers, confusion evident in her voice.

The single word slices through me, deeper than any knife could reach. Of course she would think I’m him. Of course her first thought would be for my despicable brother.

“No,” I say, voice rougher than intended. “It’s Arson.”

Disappointment flickers across her features before she can mask it.

Another wound, this one to something I didn’t know could hurt. Something dangerous and fragile taking root where only vengeance used to live.

“Where is he?” she asks, her voice small and uncertain.

“Back where he belongs,” I answer, unable to keep the edge from my tone. “Where he can’t hurt you.”

Her hands reach for me, hesitant at first, then more certain as they slide up my chest. Confusion clouds her expression, yet her body seems to know what it wants—touch, connection, comfort.

“The chemicals,” I explain, catching her wrists gently. “They’re used to calm a person, and they lower your inhibitions. You’re still feeling the effects.”

“No,” she says, her voice stronger than I expected. “It’s not just that.”

She pulls her hands free, surprising me with her determination as she slides them up to cup my face. Water streams between us, warm and cleansing, as she studies my features.

“You came back for me,” she whispers. “You didn’t leave me there.”

The simple observation shouldn’t affect me, but it does. Another crack in the armor I’ve built over years of institutional survival.

Her lips find mine, tentative at first, then more insistent.

I need to stop this. It’s wrong.She’s vulnerable, still influenced by the security system’s chemicals. Every rational thought escapes when her body presses against mine, wet skin sliding against wet skin. My resistance crumbles, and I let go, deepening the kiss.

Unlike our earlier encounter, this kiss holds no violence, no punishment. Her mouth opens under mine, her tongue seekingentrance that I willingly grant. My hands settle at her waist, holding rather than restraining.

“Please,” she murmurs against my lips. “I need to feel something else. Something that isn’t...”

She doesn’t finish, but doesn’t need to. I understand perfectly. She needs to replace the memory of our brutal taking with something gentler. Something chosen rather than forced.

Who am I to deny her that healing?

I lift her carefully, her legs wrapping around my waist as I press her back against the shower wall. Her breasts, perfect and water-slicked, brush against my chest, nipples hardening at the contact. My cock hardens instantly, pressing against her center where she’s still swollen and sensitive.

“Tell me to stop,” I offer, one last chance to retreat from this precipice.

“Don’t stop,” she answers, rocking against me, seeking friction. “Please, Arson.”

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