Book Review American Psycho Novels & Stories

“WAIT… YOU MEAN A PSYCHOPATH IS IN OUR SCHOOL?!” Casey flinched. Andy slapped his arm. “Jayden, sit DOWN. Why are you being loud? This is the cafeteria, not a stadium!” Jaden ignored them entirely. “Like the psychopathic kid? The killer?” Casey groaned and hissed, “Yes! And honestly, I feel like you’re going to be the next victim.” Jaden tossed his hair. “Please. I look too good to be his victim.” And across the room? The angel looked up.

I cried out more loudly and said," Abbu, try to understand. Please....that man isn't a sane human. He is............" I couldn't complete my sentence when I heard that psycho's voice from behind. " Jaan....." He said and the phone fell on the floor. I felt like my hands are shaking very badly due to fear. I felt like my blood is turning cold. I turned my face behind and found him standing at the door in his gym clothes. Sweats are flowing on his beastly body and he is looking very calm. My whole body started trembling badly just looking at his face. " Apni ma sey shikayte kar rahi thi mere bade me? ( Complaining to your mother about me?)" He said lovingly and came forward.

“It’s been two months since we met. You’re an amazing boss, an amazing person but you’ve had that look since the first time I saw you.” “What look?” She sighs “I don’t want to overstep but if you ever need someone to talk to, I’m here.” I don’t know what to tell her so I just nod. “Thanks, I’ll be leaving soon.” “Alright, we’ll lock up.” **** I grab a book from the shelf and read the title. ‘The Psychopath’s internal wiring’ I walk over to a seat in the corner and I start to read. A gentle hand taps me, jerking me awake.

Copyright ©️ 2021 by Mylovelyreaders All rights reserved. ⚠️DARK ROMANCE⚠️ Hey guys, thanks for giving so much love and support for my book Psycho Mafia season 1. So my lovelies, I welcome you all to the second season of Psycho Mafia 2. Just like the first season, this book is full of drama, action, romance and thriller. This story is entirely my imagination and the characters are fictious. Any resemblance from the resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locals is entirely coincidental.

Daniel Hart was a chapter closed with no intention of being reread. And then, on a crisp Saturday morning in early October, I met him. The bookstore was nearly empty—one of those independent shops with mismatched chairs, shelves that reached too high, and the scent of cedar and old paper in the air. I went there often, drawn to its quiet corners and anonymity. I was in the psychology aisle, flipping through a worn copy of The Body Keeps the Score, when I heard a voice behind me. “That one saved my life. Or at least explained why I couldn’t sleep for three years.”

It was Damian Knight’s voice when he said, “You belong to me.” Because a part of her believed him. And a darker part didn’t want to argue. She stood restlessly and wandered the room. Her fingers trailed along the bookshelves. Most were hardbound. Thick, glossy, untouched. Titles like Power & Play, Behavioral Strategy, and Psychology of Loyalty. One book was crooked. She tilted her head. It was the only one not aligned with the rest. She reached out. Pulled it. Nothing happened. No secret door. No dramatic reveal.

asked Amber lazily. She really did not think that Harper's madness in the book Read My Mind was that bad. It could be said that Harper had turned into a book addict. Almost every day Amber could see the book lying on Harper's desk and was always in the woman's hand when she didn't have a patient. Like this afternoon. She again caught Harper reading the fictional story of Jayden Hoover, a psychopath who had brutally murdered his mother as a teenager. "Psychotic. Behavior-based on—" "I know, Harp." Amber cut quickly as she raised her hand in the air. It seemed that she regretted her question which now made Harper even more excited to discuss the story of crazy Jayden. “You don't need to explai

“This one’s not just about desire. It’s about power… and what people let happen when they’re caught inside it.” He went quiet for a moment, eyes still fixed on the page. “And that’s a dangerous game.” Adam closed the book halfway again, but this time there was no hesitation in him, just focus. “Whoever wrote this…” he murmured, “they’ve seen some real shit.” A faint, serious look settled on his face now. “Or lived it.” He picked the book back up properly. “Alright…” he said, more to himself than anything else. “Let’s see how deep this goes.”

"* At the time, he had scoffed to himself. No book could fix what was broken within him. And yet, here he was. Three a.m. and awake, insomnia gnawing at his chest like it had a tendency to do. He had poured himself a glass of scotch—his second—and sat in the armchair by the window. The book was next to him, not opened. The city stretched below like a painting, but it was cold. Dead. Like him. He opened the cover. The first few pages were dull. He scanned more than he read, unengaged. But when the story got underway, something odd occurred. He slowed. The old man in the story—grumpy, bitter, mad at the world—wasn't just recognizable. He was *him*. Line by line, paragraph by paragraph, the wor

I need to process and just have a minute to breathe. I turn the books the right way up and try to slide them back into the shelves silently when the title of the first catches my eye and stops me pushing it in. It’s a psychology textbook about his personality condition and I impulsively tip it sideways to let the pages flip open for a quick nosey. That part of me that is eager to know more about what it means in terms of him as a person kicking in. I scan the words eagerly, desperate for more insight.