Entombed In Sin (Graveyard Games Duet #2)

1. Beatrix

1

BEATRIX

I 've been sleeping.

That much I know. As I blink my bathroom into focus, I try to process what exactly I am doing standing naked in front of Thatcher. My stepbrother is naked too. But why? He says something to me. I nod automatically, but whatever was said is just a garbled mess. My head throbs and my hands hurt. What is going on? Why am I here with him? His fingers wrap around my wrist to draw me closer to his body. When I'm close enough, he wraps his arms around my shoulders and holds me. Hugs me.

What …?

Currently, you reside six feet under

There was a letter. I remember that.

There’s a camera buried with you.

They were watching me—all three of them—while I…

Put on a show of a lifetime, and we may just let you out.

Visions of being stuck in a coffin, of losing and regaining consciousness over and over as the air became sparse, emerge like the bubbles in boiling water. Tears spring to my eyes and terror causes my body to stiffen.

“Y-you tried to kill me,” I rasp out as memories start to roil across my consciousness.

“No one was trying to kill you, or you’d be dead,” Thatcher promises. “Knox was trying to scare you. That’s how punishments work. You’ve learned never to spy on anyone again, now haven’t you?”

That was a punishment? That’s what they’ll do to me each time I break a rule? Or will it be worse? What can I expect next time? I know there will be a next time. Three rules hold these three together. I’ve just discovered one of them, now I have two more to find out the hard way.

Oh god, I won’t survive playing their games. Why did I agree to this? They're insane if they think I can endure two more rounds of messing around and finding out when it comes to their rules. A heavy sob shakes my body. I try to pull away from Thatcher, but he holds me close.

“Get off of me,” I cry out weakly as tears spill down my face. “You’re all monsters.”

“That might be true, but we’re monsters that care about one another,” Thatcher admits. “We’re together so much that privacy is almost nonexistent in our world. But to keep our sanity, it’s necessary to give each other a safe space. That’s why we let you keep your room, you know. Otherwise, you’d be passed between me and Sagan every night.”

I sob louder. Who cares about their stupid rules?

“Shh, there, there. Remember, punishments aren’t supposed to be fun,” he murmurs into my ear. “Try to relax.”

Relax? They buried me alive … I choke on a cry of rage only to find my throat raw and swollen. Probably from all the screaming when I realized no one was coming for me. Thatcher steps back but tsks in disapproval. I’m not sure what I’ve done wrong until he lifts one of my hands. It's then that I notice the damage I've done to them. All that desperate, instinctual clawing has left the tips of my fingers a bloody, ragged mess.

“I see I have to remind Knox that we shouldn’t play as rough with our little sister as we do with each other, don’t I?” Thatcher murmurs.

He takes my chin with his other hand and tilts my head up. I expect to see the ugliness of his soul shining back at me now that I’ve had a brush with death, or at the very least, a cruel, mocking smile on his face like his father would wear. Instead, the concern etched into his sharp features deepens. I don’t trust it.

“ You helped him. I saw the note!” I try to pull away from Thatcher again, but he doesn’t let me go. His grip tightens on my chin and wrist, holding me in place.

“I don’t know anything about a note, Beatrix. Given that your transgression was with Knox, we allowed him to figure out your punishment. So, if he wrote something and included our names, it’s because we’re a family unit. Not because we were involved,” Thatcher corrects lightly, despite his hard grip. “He went a bit too far, but hopefully you'll forgive him. It was his first time dishing out a punishment of his own, and apparently, he was a bit overzealous.”

All the fight drains out of me as I stare up into his steady, sincere gaze. Maybe… Maybe Thatcher hadn’t tried to kill me? No, that can’t be right. I saw the note. They were involved and these three do everything together. Of course, they knew what he was doing… right? I stare up into Thatcher’s face and can’t tell if the earnestness in his dual colored eyes can be trusted.

What I know for certain is that Knox is going to pay for this. Other than that, I don’t know what to think. And quite frankly, I don’t have the energy to do much of it in the first place. My body is leaden, and a heavy fog is beginning to descend over my consciousness. My tears cease as the world slows. It feels like there’s a disconnect between me and reality, like I’m living a dream. Maybe I’m still in that coffin, suffocating to death. Will I wake up in a panic at any moment to find myself in the dimly lit, narrow coffin just like the other times between dreams? Or is this the finale?

When Thatcher lets go of my wrist and chin, I nod. I don’t know why. Thatcher says something else, and again I nod, but I don’t know what he’s said. He has to turn me around himself when I don't move.

“Let me help you take your hair down.”

Did I just hear him right? He wants to play with my hair? Suddenly, Thatcher’s fingers are unraveling one of my braids. Something must be getting lost in translation. Why would he want to do this? And why am I letting him? I should be running fast and far from these guys. Yet my limbs feel weighted, and my thoughts are just mush. So, I stand there just trying to stay conscious and allow Thatcher to unravel the second braid without a word. When my curls are free, he gently scrapes his nails along my scalp.

I let out a soft sigh.

“There, that feel better?” he asks.

My head bobs up and down.

“I knew it would. Is there a reason you always keep your hair in two braids?” Thatcher takes my wrist and turns me back around to face him.

I'm so tired . As I stand there before Thatcher, naked and covered in sweat, grime, and blood, I can't find it in me to care about my appearance. I don’t have it in me to be embarrassed, mortified, or even slightly perturbed. In fact, other than a strange buzzing under my skin, I'm feeling rather numb now that the terror has subsided.

Focus. Thatcher asked me a question. He’s waiting for an answer. I try to lift my eyes all the way up to meet his gaze, but he’s just so tall and my head feels so heavy. The task is too daunting. I settle on staring at his mouth as I reply, “M-my mother used to braid them when I was a child, to keep my curls out of my face. She was good to me back then and I…”

I what? Want to remember her that way? Or is it because my hair is easier to maintain styled in this fashion? Thoughts drift on by without much substance to hold on to. The jumbled mess in my head and the strange disconnect from my mouth make me feel almost drunk.

“I like them,” I manage to get out, but even my tongue feels heavy now. My head shakes as I try to clear it, but it doesn’t help. “I feel funny.”

“I like them too. I’m only curious.” Thatcher guides me toward the shower. “And you're crashing. All that adrenaline has zapped your energy and now you’re spent. Don’t worry, I got you, Little Sister. Let your big brother take care of you.”

His words, as repulsive as they should be, don’t bring the visceral response they should. I squeeze my eyes shut and try not to feel too relieved that he still wants to play the doting brother. That someone is here with me after a harrowing experience. I’m not alone. It doesn’t matter that Thatcher, Sagan, and Knox orchestrated the event. Someone is here with me now, and that’s all that matters.

You're so fucking pathetic , a small voice in my head whispers as Thatcher's steady, firm grip helps me step over the ledge of the clawfoot tub. Pathetic I may be, but I need help and he's here to offer it. I need him.

Even if he helped Knox put me in the ground and bury me.

I flinch as hot water hits the open wounds all over my hands. I shiver as pain races down my spine. My knees knock together before I lose sensation in my legs. Just as I start to go down, Thatcher’s there, naked, stepping under the water with me. His hands hold my hips, steadying me.

“Hands on the wall,” he demands.

I do as I’m told and lean into them.

“Good girl, Beatrix.”

Compared to everything said thus far, these three words seem to ring loud and clear. I both love and hate the way they work some of the stiffness out of my shoulders. I capture my bottom lip as it wobbles, and tears well back up.

“Now stay like this while I wash you.”

Thatcher’s body, lean and hard, presses against my back as he reaches for the loofa. His warm skin against mine coaxes up memories of our time together in his motel room. He told me I was his good girl then, too. I squeeze my eyes shut as another shiver rushes through me. If Thatcher feels it, he doesn’t say anything. Instead, he gets to work lathering the loofa up with soap and scrubbing away the evidence of my punishment.

My stepbrother’s touch isn’t innocent.

As one hand works the loofa over me, Thatcher’s other hand comes to rest on my hip. From there, it slides around to cup my rounded stomach before sliding up to hold a breast in his hand. He kneads me, and I can’t stop the soft gasp that slips from my lips as his touch draws heat beneath my cold skin. His fingers tug and tease my nipple before he rolls it and repeats the motion. Thatcher groans in my ear, his mouth pressing against the shell.

“How good it feels to hold you, Little Sister.” My nipple grows hard under his touch. “I was worried there for a moment that I may never get to again. It would've been devastating to lose you, Beatrix.”

Devastating? That's a strong word for someone who barely knows me. I'm not sure if I believe him. But I currently don't have it in me to analyze much of anything. Not his words, his sincerity, or how I feel about all of it.

“Sagan and I should've supervised Knox with his punishment. Instead, we gave him our blessing and let him do whatever he wanted. That was our mistake,” he murmurs into my ear. “Quite frankly, I love the creativity on his end. If he’d let it go on for only an hour, things would be different. But he didn’t. Knox really messed up, Beatrix, but we'll make sure to put everyone back on an equal playing field.”

Knox. Just his name makes me want to claw my way out of my skin. I must’ve reacted somehow because Thatcher shushes me.

“Everything is alright now. Let your brothers make it right. Right now, let me bask in your presence. I'm just glad I still have you. You’ve poisoned my mind, Little Sister. Altered my very DNA. How wicked and clever you are to toy with me. I’ve thought about how good you taste on my tongue and how perfect your pretty cunt felt around my cock more times than I care to admit. I can't think of a life without you now that I possess you. I don't want to.”

The loofa switches hands. He takes the opportunity to play with my other breast, working that nipple into a hardened peak. The numbness that has stretched through me begins to fade. His touch stirs the blood beneath my skin, warming me from the inside out. Unconsciously, I find myself leaning back against Thatcher as the heat he’s kindling rushes through my veins and gathers heavily between my legs, growing warmer.

How could my body be responding to him right now? I almost died because of Thatcher. Maybe he didn’t put me in that coffin and maybe he didn’t pick up a shovel and bury me himself. But he said he admired the creativity in Knox’s punishment. He would’ve allowed it to happen if Knox had come to him. I would’ve been in this same position, regardless. I hate myself as my clit begins to throb and I’m forced to suppress a hard shiver as desire builds under his touch.

“No…” I whisper as my head shakes back and forth in a weak protest. Self-loathing and want battle for supremacy in my chest and muddle my mind even further.

“Hush, let me remind you how good it feels to be alive and with your big brother,” he murmurs into my ear.

I groan softly, not sure if feeling things, anything , is ideal. The warmth, his touch, the water as it sluices over me. I don’t want to feel it. Because along with sensation returning, memories resurface faster. From the shattering realization that I wasn’t getting out, to the pain in my chest as I struggled to breathe—none of it is worth remembering.

Yet as Thatcher’s hand dives between my legs—leaving my breast—I can’t help but lean into the pleasure. At least it’s not fear. Or a crippling, crushing sense of despair. Thatcher’s other hand lifts as he hangs the loofah back up. But he’s not done. He grabs the shower head, lifting it from its rack.

“Spread your legs.”

I do as I’m told. It’s not like he’d let me object, anyway. Do I even want to?

Thatcher adjusts the setting on the shower head until it’s a hard, pulsating stream, then brings it down between my legs. The warm water hits my clit and sends my frayed nerves into overdrive. I cry out, surprised. Thatcher’s hand lands on my hip to steady me.

“Relax, Little Sister. Let me help you fall apart, and when you’re done, I’ll piece you back together and hold you tight.”

Despite his words, my teeth clench together, and I fight the urge to just cave in to him and his touch. I shouldn’t be doing this. I almost died because of their stupid rules. My bottom lip gets caught between my teeth as I fight the heat just a little bit longer. It’s hard given how amazing this feels.

With a heavy sigh of defeat, I give into the moment. My body melts and a fortuitous moan slips past my lips as I set my bottom one free.

“That’s right,” he murmurs, while the last of my resistance ebbs away. “Let me make it better, Little Sister.”

The water hits my clit just right and I can’t help but roll my hips to chase the pleasure building in my lower abdomen. I want to hold everything in—to hide my pleasure and the shame that comes with it. Thatcher shouldn’t be able to both obliterate me and bring me back from ruination. It’s just not fair. But I can’t stop the slight moan that rumbles in my throat. Nor can I prevent my lips from parting and whispering Thatcher’s name as my toes curl. Soon my body is a quivering mess. Oh god, it feels so good to feel good, even for this brief moment. My fingers curve, what nails remain scraping against the wall. I can’t seem to breathe easily. Each inhale is a soft gasp that comes out as a twisted groan.

Thatcher moves behind me. Suddenly, his erection rests at my entrance.

“Hips back,” he orders, his voice deepening.

Rather than overthink it, I simply spread my legs wider and push my butt back. With easy access, Thatcher doesn’t hesitate. He surges forward, his dick driving into me, stretching me beyond belief. His name is a soft, near reverent chant. I arch back into him, loving how full I feel with him inside me. When he’s bottomed out, he stills for just a moment. His groan is deep as it rattles around in his throat, and I can feel the shudder running through his body.

“So good, Beatrix. You’re so damn good for me,” he says softly. “Now let your big brother feed that pretty little cunt some nice, warm milk.”

There is nothing gentle about the way he moves. With each thrust, his hips snap against my butt and I cry out. My head spins, fatigue and a wave of giddiness mingling until I’m practically high. Thatcher pulls his hips back then surges deeper and harder into my body. I gasp as my eyes roll back into my head. Skin and water slap together. The sounds are both dirty and erotic. I arch back as my legs begin to tremble. The water hitting my clit, warm and unrelenting, with Thatcher’s dick stuffed so deep inside me, hits all the right places.

“Fuck, you take my cock so well.” Thatcher groans into my ear. “You can take more of it, can’t you? Of course you can. I know you can. Take me deeper, Beatrix. Bend those hips back further.”

I shiver under his words and I do as I’m told. At this angle, Thatcher sinks deeper, making me choke on a cry.

“ Yes , just like that. That’s right, Little Sister. Feel me and know that you and I belong together. I won’t let Knox, or anyone else, take you away from me. Your soul is already cemented to mine. You think I would let a little mistake take you away? Fuck no.”

He needs to stop talking. I don’t want to know how he thinks I belong to him. But his words are hooking themselves into my psyche and pushing out rational thought. I focus on the sensation building between my legs. On how my pussy is clenching around his hard dick as he mercilessly buries himself inside my body.

“I’ll admit I was scared there for a second, but now, holding you, it all feels right as rain,” Thatcher continues, his voice a deep growl. I can almost picture him gritting his teeth as he leans forward to speak into the back of my neck. “Now, hold on, I’m going to cum so deep into your cunt that you’ll be leaking me for days. It’ll be a reminder to the both of us how good it feels to be here with each other. Got that, Little Sister? Do you hear how desperately your big brother needs you?”

As much as I don’t want to hear this, his words are like a balm to something in my psyche. Someone needs me. For once, in my miserable existence, someone wants and needs me around. Hadn’t I been looking for a connection when I stumbled upon Thatcher and he introduced himself as Chase? Sure, I was also looking for a thrill, but a thrill I could share with someone else. That need to be with someone has led me to this very moment, in a strange, roundabout way. The entire situation of finding myself buried is my own doing, more so than even Knox’s.

Now that I have that connection, can I live without it? If I could, would I escape from Thatcher and the others? Just the thought of taking off, even after what just transpired… I internally cringe away from the idea. I’m hooked on Thatcher and Sagan… even Knox. As much as I hate him right now, I can’t see a life without him in it.

Is this the feeling my mom had when she got high? Her vice was heroin, but maybe mine is Thatcher, Sagan, and Knox. I’ve had a taste of being wanted, of being important enough for people to kill for. How could I possibly toss this away, as toxic and deadly as it seems to be? As much as I hate it, without these guys, I don’t have a purpose in this life.

The bitterness that comes on the tailcoat of that thought makes my stomach twist.

I push it away for the moment as the pleasure between my legs, coils in my lower stomach and grows tauter. Glancing down, I catch sight of Thatcher’s fingers digging into my hip, the veins on top of his hand bulging as he holds me in place. I don’t know why, but the sight of them is my undoing. My body tenses, the breath in my throat catches. The pleasure that erupts wipes all thoughts, worries, and cares away. Just like the night we spent together, I’m free of everything that makes me… me.

As my orgasm subsides, and my soul floats back down to reality, I find myself crying. When did the tears start? I can’t remember. Maybe they never stopped? I’m so confused by their presence and the thick, conflicting emotions rushing through me. Heavy sobs rock my body—as if acknowledging the fat watery droplets have opened the floodgate. Unable to stop myself, I seek comfort in the wall of muscle behind me. At least for a moment he could make me feel good, and right now I’ll cling to that.

“Thank you, Thatcher…” I say.

“ Fuck , you’re so sweet.”

Thatcher’s teeth suddenly sink into the crook of my neck, biting down painfully. At the same time, he finds his release. I can feel the swell of his dick as he spills himself deep inside of me. Thatcher doesn’t stop his hard thrusts, but they do become a bit more shallow as he coats my insides. To my surprise, each jerk of his hips sends wave after wave of aftershocks through me. I shudder and shake under their surprising intensity. The pain of Thatcher’s bite disappears as his teeth release me and he gently sucks on the mark.

For a few moments, we breathe heavily as we revel in each other’s hold.

But then Thatcher’s moving again. Within a few minutes, the water is off, a towel is wrapped around my body, and he’s guiding me out of the bathroom. I glance toward my dresser where my pajamas are kept. Thatcher doesn’t stop for me to grab them. He steers me out of my room and guides me through the hallway to the room he’s occupied since moving in.

He opens the doors and urges me to sit down on his bed.

I plop down without objection. Thatcher leaves me to move around the room silently. As I sit there and watch him through heavy leaded eyes, resentment replaces the undeserved gratitude of Thatcher’s attention in the shower. Why am I leaning so heavily on a man who let his boyfriend nearly kill me? He claims he’ll get me back on an equal playing field with Knox but that means this is still just a game to them. My life isn’t a game. At this moment, I hate Thatcher, Sagan, and especially Knox. I hate how they’ve swept in and how I've allowed myself to believe my life could be better with them.

The worst part, though, is I hate myself more than I hate the three of them. I let these guys walk in and take over. I’ve been a doormat all my life, and it seems like I can’t escape that role no matter who I’m around.

I’m so tired of being me.

Unable to escape the cloud of self-disgust, I allow my eyes to close before lowering myself onto my side. There’s movement around the room but I’m so tired that the sudden jostling doesn’t faze me. It’s not until Thatcher is pulling me into his warm body that I realize he’s thrown one of his shirts on me and is tucking me in.

“I’ll go have a little chat with Knox. Stay here in my room and wrapped up in my things.”

Lips brush the top of my head, but that’s the last thing I remember before I allow myself to slip away into unconsciousness.