Page 91 of The Psychopaths

Footsteps sound in the hallway. Cursing. Arson, coming to check on the alarm.

I position myself casually against the far wall, as far from my handiwork as possible. Arms crossed, expression annoyed—just a prisoner irritated by the unexpected shower.

The hole is hidden. The wires are out of sight. As long as he doesn’t look too closely, doesn’t decide to move furniture, I should be fine.

The door at the end of the corridor slams open. Time to put on a performance.

Because if Arson suspects what I’ve done, it won’t be me who pays the price.

It’ll be Lilian.

The observation window darkens as two figures appear through the spraying water. Arson’s scowl is visible even through the cascading droplets, his hair plastered to his forehead, clothes already soaking from the hall sprinklers.

But it’s the smaller figure beside him that makes my heart stutter. Lilian, wearing what looks like one of Arson’s T-shirts, far too large for her frame. Her hair hangs in wet tendrils around her face, eyes wide as she takes in my flooded cell.

Arson slams his palm against the intercom button. “What the fuck did you do?” His voice crackles through the speaker system, competing with the wail of alarms.

I adopt an expression of innocent confusion, spreading my arms wide at the deluge. “Me? I’m just enjoying the unexpected shower. Your security system appears to be having issues.”

His eyes narrow, scanning the cell for evidence of tampering. I force myself to remain relaxed, casual, though every muscle is tensed for flight or fight.

“Lilian, stay here,” he orders, not looking at her. “I need to check the main control panel.”

She nods, but her eyes never leave me. There’s something in her gaze—concern, relief at seeing me relatively unharmed, and something else. Something that makes my chest tighten.

The moment Arson disappears from view, she steps closer to the glass. Her lips form words I can’t hear through the barrier and alarms.

I move toward the window, careful to stay away from my hidden breach. Water streams down my face, soaking my shirt and and pooling around my feet. Through the glass, I can see she’s not much drier, the borrowed shirt clinging to her curves in a way that makes my throat go dry despite the water everywhere.

Arson reappears before we can communicate, his expression thunderous. He studies me through the glass, eyes moving methodically around my cell. Looking for what I’ve done. How I’ve compromised his perfect system.

Time to distract him.

I grin, slow and deliberate, then offer a casual shrug as if to say:What can you do?The gesture is calculated to infuriate him—dismissive and unconcerned despite the chaos I’ve clearly caused.His jaw tightens visibly. Behind him, Lilian watches our silent exchange, her expression torn between fascination and fear.

Good. Let him focus on me. On this challenge to his authority. Not searching for how I triggered the system.

Because next time, I won’t just set off alarms.

Next time, I’ll walk right out that door and take her with me.

The sprinklers continue their relentless downpour, soaking everything. Maintaining eye contact with my brother, I reach forthe hem of my sodden shirt and peel it slowly upward, revealing the body that mirrors his own. Every movement is deliberate, unhurried.

Arson’s eyes narrow, understanding exactly what I’m doing.

I toss the shirt aside with theatrical carelessness, letting it slap wetly against the floor. Water streams down my chest, following the contours of muscles that have grown leaner but no less defined during my captivity. I’ve made sure of that, using the limited space to maintain my strength, preparing for this moment.

Through the glass, I see Lilian’s expression shift. Her eyes track the movement of water down my torso, a flush rising to her cheeks that has nothing to do with the alarm’s red glow. Does she look at him the same way? Does she notice we’re identical, yet fundamentally different?

I stretch, rolling my shoulders as if simply relieving tension. Every motion is calculated to remind both of them that Arson and I share the same form. The same genetic blueprint. The same potential for attraction.

The soap dish beside my small sink is still intact. I reach for the bar of institutional soap, turning it slowly in my hands. Arson’s jaw tightens further as he realizes what’s coming next.

With deliberate sensuality, I begin to wash. Hands moving in slow circles across my chest, down my abdomen. Nothing overtly sexual—just a man cleaning himself—but the subtext is unmistakable.

Look at me, my actions say.

Remember, we’re identical.

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