Page 127 of Psycho Gods

I would rather die.

In summary, our Revered had allowed herself to get stabbed in battle and had almost bled out, she’d had sex with the twins in front of us at a party, we’d scorched the side of a mountain, she’d run away from us and straight into the arms of the twins, and we were no closer to mastering our abilities.

It had been the worst week of my life.

Easily.

Dr. Palmer sighed with exasperation, then squinted at her clipboard. “It says here you successfully defeated the ungodly at the first battle. Tell me about it. Did anything especially traumatizing happen?”

Arabella choked.

I patted her back and glared at the therapist. “Get her water. Now.”

Dr. Palmer frowned but handed over a cup of water.

Arabella gulped it down while I rubbed soothing circles on her back and tried not to tangle my fingers in her blue curls.

She didn’t pull away.

My fingers clenched as I remembered a slur was carved into her skin. I forced my hands wide and kept rubbing.

The arm on the other side of the couch went up in flames.

Scorpius muttered something derogatory under his breath as he smacked out the flames with his sleeves, and Orion tried to peer past me to look at our Revered.

I draped my right arm over his shoulder, and he snuggled against me. He turned his face so he could stare at her.

Water splashed over the rim of the water cup and fell as snowflakes onto her clothes as she took a sip.

A noise of distress rumbled in my chest.

Everyone turned to stare at me, and I ignored them. Lifting my chin high, I concentrated on keeping the flames contained to my skin.

“Aran, from your reaction”—Dr. Palmer looked at her shaking hands pointedly—“it seems that something did happen in the battle. Let’s talk about it.”

Her trembling intensified, and the water in the cup turned to ice.

My upper lip pulled back. How dare she ask such intrusive questions of my Revered?

Only I could pester her about her choices.

This random woman had no right to distress her.

Scarlet shooting off my fingertips, I leaned back and draped my arm over the cushion behind Arabella as I fantasized about Dr. Palmer’s expression when she went up in flames.

I felt significantly better.

Maybe therapy was working?

“Please, Aran?” Dr. Palmer looked at her expectantly.

There was a long pause. “Fine—I’ll tell you. ”

I glanced down at her in surprise.

It never failed to shock me, having a woman for a Revered. No one would accuse Arabella of being weak, especially after her performance in the Legionnaire Games, but she was clearly more empathetic than the three of us.

She was a composite of contradictions: kind and playful, sad and morose, a victim and an aggressor, tenacious and merciless.