Total pages in book: 84
Estimated words: 82068 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 410(@200wpm)___ 328(@250wpm)___ 274(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 82068 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 410(@200wpm)___ 328(@250wpm)___ 274(@300wpm)
Someone kidnapped my classmate, and no one cares. Not the college, not the police—everyone just wants to forget her. But I won’t.
Finding Megan becomes my obsession, leading me straight into the world of the rich and ruthless Crowne family. They’re untouchable, powerful, and hiding something dark.
And I walk right into their trap.
Now I’m their prisoner, caught in a game of mind-bending control where every step they take shatters my sanity. And Caius Crowne—the coldest, most ruthless of them all—is determined to use me to get what he wants.
I hate him. I crave him. But I won’t break.
I might be their pawn for now, but I’ll outplay them all. Even if it’s the last thing I do.
Psyop Kings is book one in The Crowne Conspiracy trilogy. This book is a dark, psychological romance that contains triggering content. This book ends on a cliffhanger.
Book 1 - Psyop Kings
Book 2 - Mind Maze
Book 3 - Cup of Lies
What to Expect in Psyop
Enemies-to-Lovers Captive Romance Morally Gray MMC Mind Games Touch Her and Die Vibes Dark Family Secrets Obsessive Anti-Hero Forbidden Attraction
*************FULL BOOK START HERE*************
Psyop (noun.) Psyop is pronounced: ˈsī-ˌäp
Psyop is short for psychological operations.
n. a military operation performed by a unit specializing in psychological warfare.
n. military actions designed to influence the perceptions and attitudes of individuals, groups, and foreign governments.
(Urban Dictionary Definition)
Psyops use a wide array of communications media—including radio and TV broadcasts, loudspeakers, newspapers, magazines, leaflets, and even comic books—to help win or prevent wars.—Harold Kennedy
A PSYOP is a form of military operation that targets the emotional and mental state of the enemy.—Mitzi Perdue
“My job in psy-ops is to play with people’s heads, to get the enemy to behave the way we want them to behave,” says Lt. Colonel Michael Holmes.—Michael Hastings
(Merriam-Webster Dictionary)
Romy
Present Time
I’m an unreliable narrator.
If my life story were a book, that’s what they’d say about me.
That’s what my therapist, Maura, often says. Same with Dad.
Sometimes I almost believe that too.
Almost.
I can’t breathe.
I can’t breathe.
Oh my God, I can’t breathe.
Hot, thick air settles on top of me like a wool blanket, smothering the last bit of breathable oxygen. My lungs ache and my head throbs.
I’m going to die.
Just a dream, Romy.
Just a dream.
The pounding inside my skull clouds my thoughts. I’m unsure if I’m drowning or floating in space—either one a terrible situation concocted deep in the fragmented recesses of my mind.
It’s not real, though.
It never is.
Not anymore.
I try to think about the grounding techniques Maura taught me. Deep breathing is out of the question. It’ll only make me fixate on how much oxygen I have available to me and how long it will take me to pass out without adequate air.
Why can’t I remember what she said to do?
I’m catapulted back to when I was six and I’d rub my pinky in a small line along the side seam of my nightgown. The little balls on the fabric from being washed a thousand times were comforting and distracting. The dark and all the monsters who lurked there terrified me back then, but the small action soothed me in unimaginable ways.
When I focused on the movement—up, down, up, down, up, down—and counted all the ups and all the downs, the terrible nightmares would eventually end. And, before I knew it, the sun would come up.
I was always safe and free in the daylight.
A trickle of sweat races down my temple, rousing me from my erratic thoughts.
I’m not a child.
I’m a freaking grown-ass woman now.
So why am I so frightened of the dark still?
My hand shakes as I slide it down to my side. The fabric isn’t soft and worn out. It’s thick and durable. Blue jeans? Since when do I wear jeans to bed?
A thrill skitters down my spine.
It’s just a dream.
The throbbing in my head intensifies, spotting my vision.
Turn on the light, Romy. You’ll see. Just another stupid nightmare.
I reach for my lamp and bump my hand hard on the nightstand. Except it isn’t a nightstand. It’s the wall. Did I fall asleep on Tara’s bed?
A shudder ripples through me.
My roommate hardly washes her sheets and, given how many men she has in her bed, it grosses me out on a daily basis. The thought of being in her bed has me jolting upright.
Thump!
A wave of dizzying pain floods through my head where I smacked my forehead.
What the hell?
As awareness finally clutches its piercing claws into me, clarity quickly surveys my situation.
Hot, stale air.
Not on a soft bed but something hard and unforgiving.
Walls all around me.
Am I dead? Did I just wake up inside my own coffin?
A surge of panic explodes through me. The urge to scream is overwhelming, but past experience has me smothering it with a pitiful whimper. Stinging tears burn my eyes and wet my lashes. I push against the wooden wall above me with all my strength, but it doesn’t budge a millimeter.
I’m trapped.
Somehow, someway, I’m trapped.
I don’t know how I got here or who put me here, but it’s a fact. Not a dream, not a mental side quest, not a hallucination. It’s real.
Think, Romy!
What is today? What time of day is it? What’s the last thing I remember?
I desperately try to calm my erratically beating heart to focus on anything I can recall. A hint of tobacco. My nostrils flare as I suck in the musty, thick air. The scent clings to my hoodie that’s over my now sweat-soaked shirt. Once I’m focused on the smell, it becomes all I can notice.
How did I get that smell on me?
The faint sound of glasses clinking together and an ancient Guns N’ Roses song thread through my consciousness.
A bar.
I’d gone to a bar.
I’m only eighteen, though. How did I—fake ID. I got in with a fake ID that my brother helped me get last summer.
Thoughts of Bastian have tendrils of calm cooling my burning skin.
Think about your brother, Romy. That’s it. Breathe, girl.
My brain skitters past Bastian, back to the memories swimming in my foggy head.