Page 92 of The Psychopaths

Whatever he offers, I can match, but I can do it better.

Lilian can’t seem to look away, her lips slightly parted. I see Arson notice her reaction, see the muscle in his cheek jump with suppressed fury.

This is how we’ve always fought—not with fists but with psychological warfare. Finding weaknesses, then exploiting them mercilessly. The difference is, now the stakes involve more than brotherly rivalry.

Soap suds mix with sprinkler water, sliding down my skin in rivulets. I maintain eye contact with my brother as I wash my neck, my shoulders, and down my arms. The same arms that could hold her. The same hands that could touch her.

You’re not special, every movement tells him. You’re just a copy. A reflection. Whatever claim you think you have on her isn’t unique. I had her first, and I’ll be the one who gets to walk away with her.

His expression darkens to something dangerous.Good.An angry Arson makes mistakes. And I only need one mistake to end this game.

I turn slightly, presenting my profile while continuing my impromptu shower. The movement places me directly under the brightest emergency light, highlighting the differences between us—my skin is smooth where his is scarred. Visual proof of our divergent paths.

A reminder that beneath identical exteriors lie very different men.

Arson’s reaction is immediate and visceral. His hand locks around Lilian’s wrist, yanking her back from the glass where she’s been watching me with undisguised fascination, to face him. The movement is possessive, territorial—claiming what he considers his.

The speaker flicks on again.

“Is this what you want? Is this what your little rebellion is about? Because from where I’m standing, she seems to be mine... All mine.”

“Enjoying the show?” he asks her, loud enough for the intercom to carry his voice to me. His eyes never leave mine as his hand moves higher beneath the shirt, making her gasp.

Lilian’s eyes flutter, caught between watching me and responding to his touch. Her back arches slightly, pressing into him despite herself. The sight makes my blood boil.

“This is what happens when you play games,” Arson continues, his free hand coming up to tilt Lilian’s face toward me. “You get to watch what you can’t have.”

His mouth finds her neck, teeth grazing the sensitive skin there while his hand continues its exploration beneath the shirt. Lilian’s lips part, her breathing visibly quickening even through the cascading water.

It’s a performance designed to torture me. To remind me of my powerlessness. Of what he can take while I watch, unable to intervene.

“She makes the most exquisite sounds,” he murmurs against her skin, eyes locked with mine in challenge. “Should I demonstrate?”

Before I can respond, he spins her around again, pressing her against the observation window. Her palms flatten against the glass, face inches from mine with only the barrier between us. Her eyes hold mine, filled with confusion and unmistakable arousal as Arson’s hands grip her hips from behind.

Arson

Idrag Lilian closer to the window there between her and Aries, my fingers digging into her arm hard enough to bruise. The alarms continue their deafening wail, water streaming from sprinklers overhead, but all I can focus on is the way she looked at him.

The silent communication between them. The fire alarm is part of a larger problem—one I need to solve immediately.

“Arson, you’re hurting me,” she gasps, stumbling to pull herself away.

I don’t respond, and I don’t relent. My mind races with images of her eyes tracking the water down his chest, her lips parting unconsciously. The same lips that were pressed against mine hours earlier. The same body that trembled under my hands.

Does he really think he can challenge me? From inside a cell?I have no choice but to prove to him who is in charge. Lilian stares at the observation window again, water pooling around our feet. Aries stands exactly where I left him, an insufferably smug smile on his face.

Testing me. Taunting me.

Using our identical bodies as a weapon.

It’s time to show him what real pain is.

I reach for the control panel beside the window, flipping the intercom switch toON. The red light blinks, confirming the connection is live. Every sound from this side of the glass will now be broadcasted into his cell.

Perfect.

“I think it’s time I show you what real pain is,” I call out, voice cutting through the alarm’s wail. “Give you a taste of what it was like to be trapped behind glass and forgotten. While everyone else continued to live their lives.”

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