Psycho Devils: Aran’s Story Book 2 (Cruel Shifterverse 5)

The beginning: Shackles—Day 5, hour 2

The bed was too squishy.

I sank into the soft feathers like the mattress was consuming me. Somehow, slavery was the least of my problems.

I pretended I was drowning.

It was fun. Kind of.

Lothaire still hadn’t come back, and the room still vibrated with noises from the party. After Orion had murdered my dance partner and dragged me back to the room (he was clearly having an episode) I’d fallen into a nightmare-filled sleep.

When I’d woken up, all the blinds were open, and the room glowed with red light.

The brightness burned my corneas.

I missed the dark.

John’s empty bed mocked me, and my stomach was in knots of worry. I hadn’t seen him since he’d been tied up and Lothaire had taken me to get tattooed. When we’d RJE’d back to the classroom, he and the demons had been gone.

I’d finished smoking the joint from the party hours ago, and the drug had worked its way out of my system. My pipe wasn’t doing much to help, because panic had returned.

I avoided looking over at Horace’s empty bed.

Smoke poured from my lips, and it made my skin tingle as it rubbed against the bleeding cut on my lower lip.

Turning my head, I stared up at the enchanted black hole swirling across the ceiling.

Someone had started the fire in the hearth, and the voices screamed at me in the flames.

My eyes itched from smoke exposure.

I sucked harder on the pipe.

My brain kept looping back to the same thought pattern: I was a grim reaper in a woman’s body.

It was obvious what was happening. I needed a shopping trip.

My body was crumbling under the stress of not being able to buy pretty clothes. I was degrading on a cellular level.

I could barely remember the rush that accompanied purchasing gorgeous shoes. I pinched my hand to ground myself as I became hyperaware of the fact that I’d been wearing the same sweat suit for weeks on end.

“This place is trying to kill me,” I said to Horse as he flapped above like he was trying to teach me how to fly.

Poor demented creature. He reminded me of my best friend Sadie.

The wall against my bed vibrated to a heavy beat and shook my headboard.

I rocked with it.

Muffled music echoed down the halls.

Across the quiet bedroom, three devils softly snored and were, unfortunately, still alive. Although, I didn’t know how they were still asleep. It wasn’t healthy.

They slept in a pile of limbs. After Malum had had a tantrum and fought the wall (he’d lost), the three of them had climbed into the small bed and promptly passed out.

I shivered. Men were such simple, primitive creatures.

The grand clock on the wall ticked. In a feat of pure mental strength, I stopped myself from clicking my tongue back at it.

While my slavers had been sleeping, I’d been wide awake still losing my mind.

At least the screaming voices in the fire had returned. I’d missed them.

I’d also established a little routine.

I stared at the stain on the floor, wallowed in silence, stared at the ceiling, dragged my nails across the wall like a rabid animal trying to escape a cage, pretended to be in a coma, stared at the clean sheets on Horace’s bed (RIP), hyperventilated, then danced to the music. Repeat.

Structure was good.

My vision blurred, and with a heavy sigh, I decided it was finally time to do something productive.

I rolled over.

Then I positioned myself so my head was hanging upside down as I smoked. A nice changeup.

The devils snored.

The room was upside down.

I counted how long I could go without blinking.

Fourteen minutes and five seconds. Six seconds. Seven seconds.

Time flew by.

The world was shadowy.

BANG, the door was flung open.

I groaned as I lost count. Now I’d have to start over.

Two demons and a human sauntered inside, and they stank of cigarettes, booze, and sweat.

Vegar and Zenith fell onto their bed in a tangle of limbs and smacking lips.

Young love. Not relatable.

A flying projectile hit me out of nowhere, and the impact cracked my head at an awkward angle.

I broke my neck and died.

The end.

Story over.

I wish.

“You’re finally back!” John bounced up and down on my bed aggressively and rattled my dislocated neck bone. “I’ve been losing my mind with worry.”

The depressive ambiance I’d spent hours carefully cultivating was ruined, and now I’d have to start wallowing all over again. Still, warm relief exploded in my sternum.

John was okay.

“What ya thinking about?” John asked with a grin.

“How much I hate you.” I narrowed my eyes. “Wait, weren’t you tied up? How did you get out? I’ve also been worried. It’s been days.”

“The servants freed me. Then Lyla healed me and made us all wait in a separate room until Lothaire got back. I think she forgot about us though.” John ruffled my curly hair, and his dimples disappeared as he became serious.

“Are you okay?” he asked. “How long have you been back, my little Smurf bestie?”

I shook my head because I didn’t want to upset him. “I just got back. I’ve been fine. Nothing really happened.”

Disturbing events in my life were frankly not surprising or special enough to be worth noting.

John narrowed his eyes like he didn’t believe me.

I squirmed under his scrutiny.

Horse must have sensed my unease, because he made a show of pecking at John’s eyeballs.

“Good Horsey.” I gave him air kisses. “Mommy loves you.”

He squawked back, which roughly translated to, I love you Momma, and pecked harder to show me his devotion. Or maybe he was summoning Hades, the legendary king from the Olympus realm renowned for his ferocity.

You could never tell these days.

John wrapped his arms around my shoulders and strangled me—that or he was giving me a hug?

I honestly couldn’t tell.

His technique was horrible, and he exerted just enough pressure to make me feel weird.

“What are you doing?” I thumped against the hard muscles on his back.

John ruffled my hair. “Um, I’m hugging my bestie? Don’t be so dramatic.” He whispered conspiratorially, “Wait, are you on your period?”

I prayed for death.

“Just because I’m a woman,” I scoffed, “you think I have my period? You sexist pig. Fae don’t ovulate until they’re twenty-five, and I’m only twenty-four. Duh.”

Now that I knew my sperm donor was a vampyre, I had confirmation that I’d gotten my powers from my mother.

All along I’d hoped I was something special, but it turned out I really was just a failure of a water fae. It was pretty obvious, since I looked so much like Mother.

Still, it was good to have closure. My lack of fae ears had given me hope. Mother had probably just cut off the tips when I was a baby because she was mad.

I mean, the woman had been clinically insane.

No judgment though.

We all struggled.

Except, maybe judgment because she’d lit me on fire every night for years?

At least she’d been consistent. It was hard to find people with discipline these days.

John pursed his lips as he continued to half hug, half strangle me. “So you don’t have your period. You’re just being a bitch?”

I punched him in the throat.

Hard.

Horse cawed with excitement and flew into the wall with such speed he dissipated, because he wasn’t the brightest.

John didn’t gasp for air—proper throat-punching decorum—instead, he arched a brow and jumped up with his elbow extended.

Six and a half feet of male slammed me into the overly squishy mattress, and I saw stars.

John might only be a human, but he was thick. The boy knew how to eat, and it felt like a five-hundred-pound weight was smothering me.

“You oaf. Get off,” I snapped as I tried to choke him with my thighs.

John wrapped an arm round my throat and squeezed. “You’re being like super bitchy right now.”

“Gonna shmove a bitch down yourst throatm.” I raked my long nails down his arm aggressively.

“Don’t be such a girl.” He grinned and didn’t let up. “It will seriously ruin the vibe of our friendship.”

My nails pulled out a chunk of his flesh, and he paused.

I used his surprise to kick him in the balls.

“Low blow,” John croaked as he curled into the fetal position and moaned.

“Don’t be such a man,” I mocked. “It’s ruining our friendship.”

John smiled, between the moments he writhed and groaned, and flashed his dimples as his dark eyes twinkled.

“You did that on purpose, didn’t you?” I sucked on my pipe and rubbed at my sore throat. “You were baiting me.”

He winked. “Guilty as charged. I guess you’ll have to spank me now, you beautiful blue-haired goddess.”

I combed my fingers through the ridiculously curly mass that now hung to my waist. It was heavy and annoying.

Of course John would make fun of it.

Playing along, I leaned across the bed and slapped his butt. “Count to ten,” I said in a deep voice like I’d heard Malum do when he was acting like a pervert and spanking women with his belt.

“Oh yes, mistress,” John yelled in a dramatic high-pitched voice. “One,” he moaned exaggeratedly.

My cheeks flushed, and I pulled my hand away from his butt like it burned. Had it always been so firm?

Friends did not spank friends and enjoy it.

That was a rule.

“Please, mistress, let me have your spanks,” John said dramatically between laughs.

He was ridiculous.

“I just threw up in my mouth,” I said with a grimace.

John laughed harder. “Same. Between the two of us, I wouldn’t be the one being spanked.”

I narrowed my eyes. “Excuse me?”

“Nothing,” John smirked and rested a hand on his messy hair as he flexed.

“What are you doing right now?”

“Nothing,” he repeated and winked, long dark lashes fluttering. “Why do you ask?”

I pointed at his face. “That’s what I’m talking about. Why did you just wink? And are you flexing right now?”

John tipped his head back and exposed the thick column of his throat. He swallowed, and his Adam’s apple bobbed. “I’m not doing anything.”

“You’re being weird.”

John pouted, and his perfect white teeth dug into his thick lower lip. “Baby girl, don’t be like that.”

Why was my best friend being so weird?

A strange sensation churned in my lower stomach.

For a long second, we stared at each other in silence.

John flung his head back, laughing. “You should see your face right now.” He gasped. “Baby.” He laughed harder as he slapped my bed with his palm. “Girl.”

“Oh, shut up.” I punched him in the gut. “You’re not funny.”

“Could you imagine if I called you ‘baby girl’?” John gasped for air and wiped at his eyes. “You’re not anyone’s baby girl. I can tell you that for free.”

He paused as if he realized something. “Except technically Lothaire’s. Talk about daddy issues.”

John howled with laughter.

I shoved a pillow over his head and tried to suffocate him, but he wrestled it out of my hands as he kept laughing.

Rude.

No, I didn’t want a man to call me baby girl. Gag. But that didn’t mean a man wouldn’t want to call me baby girl. The distinction mattered.

I bristled.

Was he implying no one would ever want me?

John didn’t know about the scar Mother had carved into my back, so he had no reason to think I’d die a virgin.

Insecurity unfurled in my gut as I mumbled, “You don’t have to be mean about it.”

I shuffled backward on the narrow bed to put space between us.

“What?” John stopped laughing and stared at me with confusion.

I said under my breath, “Some man might be into me someday. It’s not that funny.”

“Wait.” John scooted closer, and his size overwhelmed my small bed. “You think I’m laughing at the idea of a guy being into you?”

Why was it suddenly so hard to speak?

“Aran,” he said slowly.

The strange gleam in his dark eyes made my stomach swoop, and I blurted out, “Do you hate me now that you know I’m really a woman?”

His expression darkened. “I loathe you.”

An awkward moment passed.

He glared.

Talk about whiplash.

Had Mr. Hyde returned? John didn’t switch personalities on a whim; it was more of a couple of days of John being a brooding psycho kind of thing, then he was super smiley and back to normal.

I couldn’t figure it out.

“Just kidding, you dumb cunt.” John showed off his white teeth and slapped me on the arm with all his strength.

Thank the sun god.

At least some things never changed.

I rubbed at my throbbing arm. “You know, you don’t get to start calling me a cunt and bitch now that you know I’m a woman.”

“Okay, slut.”

I pinched the bridge of my nose and prayed for a different life, new friends, and a scrap of mental health.

I opened my eyes.

John made a breast motion with his hands over his chest, and he wiggled his eyebrows at me.

Never mind—death to all men.