The Psychopaths (Oakmount Elite #6)

1. Aries

Aries

Four Years Ago

A knock on the door startles me from my textbooks—three hesitant taps barely audible over the music playing in my room at the Mill House. No one visits me here unannounced, and none of my friends would fucking knock.

This is someone else. I should be a little more hesitant, but if they know where to find me, chances are they know who I am. Opening the door, I freeze with my hand on the brass knob. Lilian, my stepsister, stands in the hallway, hands clasped nervously, looking simultaneously out of place and achingly familiar.

At sixteen, she hovers in that weird space between child and woman—still holding traces of teenage awkwardness but showing glimpses of the beauty she’ll become.

“Lilian?” Her name spills out harsher than intended, surprise sharpening my tone. I shove my shoulder-length hair out of my face to keep my eyes on her deep blue ones. “What are you doing here?”

She flinches but squares her shoulders. “I needed to see you.”

I check the empty hallway, suddenly worried I missed something. “Are Father and Patricia with you? Who let you in?”

“No one is with me.” A flash of defiance crosses her features. “I drove myself. Took the Audi. And I let myself in. It’s not like you guys lock your door. Also, there’s a naked girl passed out in the living room.”

The admission stuns me. Not the naked chick obviously...that’s common around here. Lilian—sheltered, protected, allegedly-fragile Lilian—drove herself to campus despite her mom’s objections to her even getting a license.

“You shouldn’t be here,” I say, even as I step aside to let her in.

The Hayes name means never leaving family standing in hallways, regardless of circumstances. Not with the kinds of secrets that leak through walls.

She enters hesitantly, taking in my room with curious eyes. I see it through her perspective—the antique furniture, stacked textbooks, evidence of a life deliberately separate from our home’s opulence. Lilian only knows one side of me, the side I show with our parents. She doesn’t know about the late nights, the parties, the sex. The brute I’ve learned to play around campus.

“It’s nice,” she offers, though we both know it’s not. “More... you than your room at home.”

I close the door, maintaining careful distance. She’s dressed with obvious care—a blue sundress I’ve never seen her wear before. Something is different—more sophisticated?—about her golden curls. Subtle makeup highlights her blue eyes, which dart nervously around the room, avoiding direct contact with mine.

“Does your mother know where you are?” I don’t know why I even ask because I already know the answer.

She shakes her head, fingers fidgeting with the strap of her small purse. “I told her I was studying at the library. She thinks Marcus is driving me.”

She lied to her mother. Lilian Hayes, the perfect daughter, never lies. Never rebels. Never secretly drives to visit her stepbrother at college without permission. Breaking the rules is a foreign concept. To be fair, I’ve been keeping my distance from her the past year or so as I prepared for college.

“You should call her,” I say, reaching for a lifeline in the face of my growing unease. “Tell her there’s been a change of plans. I can drive you home.”

“Not yet,” she says quickly. Too quickly. “I don’t want to leave…not when I just got here. Can’t we, I don’t know, talk? It’s been weeks since you came home.”

I don’t really feel like explaining it to her, and I don’t owe her an explanation, but part of me wants to tell her that it has nothing to do with her. That being in that house, surrounded by them, by my father, makes my skin crawl. And it would be a lie...well, it does make my skin crawl, but I’ve also been avoiding her and the way I can’t stop looking at her. And how disgusted with myself it makes me feel.

There’s something about Lilian’s body language, the careful way she speaks, with an excited puppy eagerness that makes red flags wave in my head. If she isn’t here with our parents, then why is she here?

I retreat to my desk, putting physical space between us. “What did you want to talk about that required a secret drive to the Mill House?”

She draws in a deep breath, gathering courage for whatever she came to say. Fuck. Don’t do this. This isn’t going to be good. I can feel it.

“I miss you,” she says, the simple statement hanging in the air between us. “I’m lonely. You hardly come home anymore, and when you do, you’re so...distant.”

I busy myself arranging papers on my desk, avoiding her gaze. “I’m sorry, Lilian, but I’m an adult. Adults are busy. I’m also a business major, remember? Father’s expectations.”

“It’s more than that.” She moves deeper into the room, perching herself on the edge of the bed, trying to look casual even though every part of her is tense. “Did I do something wrong? We used to talk, but now you can barely look at me.”

Barely look at you? I want to tell her the problem isn’t looking at her, it’s stopping myself from doing so, because somewhere between childhood and now, the lines that should have remained crystal clear are blurred. I’m old enough to know better, which is why I’ve maintained a careful—oh-so careful—distance lately.

“You’ve done nothing wrong,” I tell her, trying to soothe her worries.

The smile she gives me makes my heart clench. “I brought you something. I know it’s early since your birthday isn’t until next week, but I figured you probably wouldn’t come home, and I wanted to hand deliver it.” She reaches into her purse and produces a small wrapped package.

The gesture is innocent enough, but the tremor in her hands as she extends the gift speaks volumes. Shit. I can’t do this. Not when she’s wearing that fucking sundress.

I accept the package reluctantly, careful not to let our fingers touch. “You shouldn’t have.”

“Open it,” she urges, tucking a strand of golden hair behind her ear—a nervous gesture.

I do as she asks, unwrapping the package slowly. Inside the carefully wrapped box is a vintage watch—elegant, understated, and nothing like the flashy timepieces Father favors. It’s exactly to my taste, showing an attention to detail, to preference, that makes my stomach clench.

“How did you know I’d like something like this?” I ask before I can stop myself.

Her smile brightens. “I pay attention. I remember you mentioned liking that style once, when we were shopping with Mother last Christmas.”

A casual comment from almost a year ago, remembered and acted upon. That seems a bit much.

“It’s perfect,” I admit, setting it carefully on my desk rather than putting it on. “Thank you.”

She beams at the approval, straightening slightly, her confidence visibly building. I’ve spent months deliberately ignoring what I thought was nothing but a desire for closeness, which has clearly been something far worse all along.

She’s here to confess feelings that should never exist between us.

Part of me—a part I’ve fought to silence, to bury beneath propriety and family obligation—recognizes her feelings because they mirror my own forbidden desires. The way I’ve noticed her transformation from child to young woman. The inappropriate thoughts I’ve shoved so far down inside me nothing can touch them. The reason I’ve maintained such careful distance.

I’ve stayed away precisely to prevent this moment. Kept my distance to protect her, not just from our family’s toxic dynamics but also from my own dangerous potential to return feelings that would destroy us both. Or give my father a weapon to wield against me—against us.

Another level of control, another vulnerability to exploit. Another reason to keep me tethered to the family business, the family legacy.

As much as it hurts, I need to stop this before it gets out of hand. I need to crush whatever confession is building behind those hopeful eyes.

I need to be cruel to be kind.

“Lilian.” I harden my voice. “It’s getting late. I think I should take you home.”

“Not yet,” she says, standing suddenly, hands clasped before her to stop their trembling. “I need to tell you something first. It’s important.”

The determination in her voice tightens my chest. I should interrupt, should prevent what’s coming, but some perverse curiosity keeps me silent. Some need to hear the words, even knowing I’ll have to crush them immediately after, stops me.

“I’ve been trying to find the right time.” She paces in a small circle, her rehearsed speech clearly abandoning her in the moment. “There never seemed to be a perfect opportunity, and then you stopped coming home as much. I realized I might never get the chance to tell you if I didn’t make it happen for myself.”

I remain motionless, tense. “Whatever it is, Lilian, I’m sure it can wait.”

“No, it can’t.” She stops directly in front of me, closer than she should be, close enough that I can smell the light floral scent she’s started wearing recently. “I’ve waited too long already.”

She draws a deep breath into her lungs, squaring those slight shoulders, embodying a courage I hate to crush out of her. But it’s the only way.

“I’m in love with you.” The words tumble out of her in a rush. “Not as a stepbrother. As...as a man, and I have been for over a year now. I know there’s an age gap, and I know our parents are married, but that doesn’t change how I feel.”

This is exactly what I feared. Her eyes search mine, looking for any sign of awareness, any hint that these forbidden feelings are returned.

“I see the way you look at me sometimes,” she continues, voice gaining confidence as she speaks. “When you think I don’t notice. I think—I hope—that maybe you feel something, too. That… that may be the reason you’ve been staying away.”

She’s more perceptive than I’ve given her credit for. The realization only strengthens my resolve to end this before it can damage us both.

“Lilian, this isn’t?—”

Before I can finish, she moves forward with lightning speed, rising up onto her tiptoes to press her lips against mine. The kiss is clumsy, inexperienced—the impulsive action of a sixteen-year-old making her first romantic move. Her hands come up to rest tentatively on my shoulders, her entire body trembling with nerves and determination.

For one dangerous second, a heartbeat, a moment in time, I’m frozen—the unexpected contact short-circuiting my carefully maintained control. Electricity renders me motionless, heat flaring and rippling through my body, evidence of everything I’ve been denying to myself.

Then cold common sense flashes through the heat, restoring logic.

Taking her by the biceps, I firmly push her away, holding her at arm’s length. The confusion bleeding into her eyes quickly shifts to hurt, then finally embarrassment as she registers my expression.

“Aries, I?—”

“No,” I interrupt, my voice deliberately cold. “This can’t happen. You must be confused.” I continue, “Mistaking familial affection for something inappropriate. Something impossible.”

Her gaze widens, hurt blooming across her features. “I’m not confused. I know what I feel.”

“What you feel is nothing more than a childish crush,” I continue mercilessly. “A textbook case of misplaced emotion due to proximity. It’s embarrassing, Lilian. For both of us.”

She flinches as if I’ve struck her, but something in her—that same determination that brought her here—rallies.

“You’re lying,” she whispers, stepping closer despite my hands still gripping her arms. “I see it in your eyes. You feel something, too.”

“What I feel is concern that my stepsister has developed an unhealthy fixation.” The words taste like poison, designed to wound, to create distance that can’t be bridged. “One that reflects poorly on her emotional maturity.”

Tears gather in her eyes, but rather than retreating, she makes one last desperate attempt. Breaking free from my grip, she surges forward again, hands framing my face as she presses her lips to mine a second time.

This kiss is different—less hesitant, more insistent.

And for one terrible, perfect moment, I respond.

My control slips, and my hands move to her waist as my lips soften under hers, revealing the truth I’ve tried so hard to deny. For a heartbeat—no more—I allow myself to consider what could be, in another world, maybe if we’d been born to another fucking family.

Then reality crashes back, bringing with it all the reasons this can never happen. Father’s manipulation. The family’s toxic influence. Her youth and vulnerability. My own darkness I fight to contain.

I push her away with more force than necessary, genuine anger mixing with self-loathing. “Enough!”

She stumbles back, anger replacing hurt as she registers that moment of response. “What do you mean? You kissed me back.”

“I did not.” The denial is swift, cold, absolute. “And the fact that you’d delude yourself into thinking so only proves my point. This is a pathetic fantasy, Lilian. One that makes me uncomfortable to even be around you.”

Each word is calculated for maximum damage, designed to create a wound so deep she’ll never approach this subject again. I force myself to continue, to be cruel beyond any previous interaction.

“Did you really think I could see you that way? My teenage stepsister? It’s not just inappropriate—it’s repulsive.”

The color drains from her face, the anger slowly receding, leaving her pale and hollow-eyed. She drops her hands down to her sides, her body seeming to fold in on itself as each word lands like a slice.

“I thought...” she says, voice small and broken.

“You thought wrong.” I turn away, unable to watch the devastation I’m causing. “This conversation is over. I’m taking you home, and we’re never speaking of this again.”

When I glance back, the transformation has already begun—humiliation hardening into a shield. The softness in her expression calcifies into dignified hurt. The vulnerable openness closing like a door slamming shut.

“I can drive myself,” she says, voice steadier than it has any right to be. “I don’t need your help.”

She moves toward the door, each step stiff with the effort of maintaining composure. Her hand trembles on the doorknob, the only outward sign of the emotional earthquake I’ve just triggered.

“Lilian,” I call, some masochistic need to witness the full extent of my cruelty making me want to see her face one more time.

She pauses but doesn’t turn. “What?”

“This was a mistake. One we’ll both pretend never happened.”

Her shoulders straighten almost imperceptibly, pride rallying even in devastation. “Don’t worry,” she says, voice barely audible. “I won’t embarrass you with my pathetic feelings again.”

The door closes behind her with a soft click that somehow cuts deeper than a slam would have. No dramatic exit, no teenage histrionics—just quiet dignity in retreat.

I move to the window, watching as she emerges into the drive below. Her posture remains perfect—chin up, shoulders back, the Hayes family training evident even in devastation. Only when she reaches her car does a crack appear in the facade. She fumbles with the keys, dropping them once before managing to open the door.

Inside the vehicle, finally hidden from public view, she crumples. Even from this distance, I can see her shoulders shaking with silent sobs, her forehead pressed against the steering wheel. One minute passes. Two. Her raw grief is a private performance I have no right to witness, yet I can’t look away from the damage I’ve inflicted.

Eventually, she straightens, wiping her face with harsh scrubs of her wrists. The engine starts. The car backs out with textbook precision. Lilian always excels at whatever she sets her mind to, even driving with a broken heart.

The girl who arrived brimming with hope and nervously rehearsed declarations is gone. In her place is someone harder, someone already building walls that will never completely come down. I recognize the transformation because I’ve gone through it myself, many times—the hardening of vulnerability into armor. She’ll need to make it harder before the family will be satisfied with her, anyway.

When the taillights finally disappear around the corner, I turn away from the window, the silence of my room suddenly oppressive.

I pick the watch up, my thumb tracing the engraving on the back I hadn’t noticed earlier: For the time we’ve shared and the time to come. – L

The words lance through my walls. She’d planned this gift with such hope, such certainty that her feelings would be returned. And I’d crushed that hope, cut her so deeply she might never risk such vulnerability again.

It was necessary , I tell myself. The only possible response.

The Hayes family destroys what it touches and corrupts what it controls. Father would have weaponized any relationship between us and used it to tighten his grip on both our lives. Used her to control me, used me to hurt her. Better a clean break now than slow destruction later.

But knowledge of necessity doesn’t ease the self-loathing settling over me like it always does. I’ve protected her from my family’s manipulation by manipulating her myself. Saved her from pain by inflicting it directly.

I place the watch in my desk drawer, unable to wear it but equally unable to discard it. It’s a reminder of what might have been in a different world. A reminder of the choice I made to hurt her to save her.

“It was the right decision,” I tell myself, the words hollow even to my own ears.

After today, I know with absolute certainty that Lilian Hayes will never look at me the same way, and perhaps that is the greatest kindness I could offer her—freedom from feelings that could only ever lead to greater pain.