Entombed In Sin (Graveyard Games Duet #2)

37. Sagan

37

SAGAN

T here’s something to be said for delayed gratification.

Wanting something is one thing. Want is fleeting. As is the satisfaction upon receiving the thing you’ve set your sights upon. But with delayed gratification, that want transforms into something else. A craving, perhaps. Something you ache for and desire above all other things. It muddles your mind and sharpens the world around you, helping you separate trivial issues from the important ones. The longer you wait to sate that craving, the more ravenous you become. That desperation, that yearning for the thing you can’t have, becomes the driving force for every action you make. That narrow-minded, obsessive need may drive a person mad—especially if it goes on for a while.

Finally, when you get what you’ve worked toward, the feeling of victory and satisfaction is more glorious than anything else in this entire world. Claiming Beatrix is a prime example of this. For months I hid in the shadows of this very house, coveting my Little Viper. But now that she’s mine? The sweet taste of contentment is an ever-present sensation that’s seeped into, and settled, deep within my bones.

I hope, for his sake, that Knox gets the same sense of contentment tonight when he gets his revenge. It’s why we’ve kept a rotting, living corpse in our basement for nearly a week.

Moving through the house, I head for the basement door. Somewhere nearby, I can hear Thatcher speaking to Beatrix. They’re probably still in the conservatory. She’s been there since she arrived home earlier this afternoon. It’s her favorite place in the house, which is why Knox took her straight there when they got home. He can be pretty thoughtful when he’s not thinking solely of himself.

I wonder if my Pretty Boy has told her about his dinner plans yet or if he’s just going to rip the Band-Aid off by surprising her when she gets to the table? Regardless how Knox announces that we’re having a guest for dinner, I hope tonight will be just as cathartic for my pet as it is for my Pretty Boy. There’s a shadow in her eyes that wasn’t there before. Given I didn’t instill it, I want it gone.

I open the door and head down the old, wooden steps. My footsteps are heavy, causing the stairs to groan in protest. With each step, a light puff of dust stirs and creates a thin cloud around my boots. The still, stale, musty air down here has a new scent mixed with it. It was faint yesterday, but much more putrid and noticeable tonight.

Stalking across the cracked, cement floor, I close the distance between me and our dinner guest. The rancid smell of infection, blood, and burnt flesh grows more unbearable as I approach Ronald Reed. I won’t acknowledge him as Angel Eyes. The man that held that title died years ago. This guy is a shell of that killer. He’s long held on to the idea of who he once was, forgetting that time and complacency can be man’s undoing.

Without feet and hands, both having been rudimentarily hacked off, he’s no more of a threat now than he was after Thatcher hit him with his car. I’m sure there are bones cracked and internal bleeding. Thatcher and I cauterized the wounds, but we certainly weren’t worried about infections taking over. We just didn’t want him to bleed out.

Not before Knox and Beatrix could give him a proper goodbye.

I can tell Knox has been here. New, fresh blood stains the floor beneath Ronald. I can’t see the recent wound but it’s there, somewhere. Amusement bubbles up in my gut.

Ronald must hear my footsteps, but if he does, there’s no reaction. I don’t care. With his head hanging, body propped up against the wall, and pale complexion—he appears dead. The only reason I know he hasn’t keeled over yet is the shallow, haggard breathing I can hear. The shaky way his chest rises and falls isn’t consistent. I’m not sure how much longer this bastard would live if we let him rot down here, but I’m sure it wouldn’t be long.

I stop in front of him. The sight of puss and blood leaking from poorly cauterized amputated limbs pleases me. I hope he’s uncomfortable. Without any preamble, I reach down and take two fistfuls of his filthy shirt and lift him up off the ground. He groans, the sound weak and raspy. We didn’t bother binding Ronald’s wrists or ankles. It’s hard to run or open a door without hands and feet. It does, however, make it a bit difficult to transport him around.

With a grunt, I heave the man over my shoulder and head back up the stairs. If I thought the steps protested my weight as I descended them, they bow and scream under it now as I carry Ronald up them. On the main floor, I carry the man down the hallway and into the kitchen.

Just like our first official night in this house, Knox has gone all out with setting the table, lighting candles, and making everything appear just right. The smell wafting through the house causes my stomach to rumble.

Knox looks up from the counter as he finishes preparing whatever it is he’s working on. The smile that stretches across his face is all teeth.

“Oh, Ronald, you’re here just in time,” Knox announces. “Sagan, place him at the head of the table. He’s our guest of honor, after all.”

I carry our victim over to the table and kick out the chair. When I dump him into it, he lands on his ass in the middle of the seat. He lifts his head to pin me with a glare. It’s almost laughable how weak it is. He could’ve spared himself the effort. The hatred in his unfocused gaze does nothing for me. Sweat beads upon his pale, gray skin. The red rims of his eyelids are stark against his sickly skin.

“Why am I up here?”

“Prefer the cold and dark?” Knox asks. “I hope so, given that’s where you're headed for all eternity soon enough.”

Ronald’s gaze creeps away from my face to find Knox. I can see the struggle it is for Ronald to find him in the mood lighting Knox has set up for us this evening. When it does land on my Pretty Boy, his mouth presses into a hard line. He sniffs with disdain, and his mustache twitches.

“I’m not scared of death. Or you.”

Knox shrugs. “Good for you. I mean, I don’t really care what the fuck you think or feel. Tonight’s not about you.”

“T-then why am I here?” he demands. “At least you knew your purpose in my home.”

Knox told me about all the things that took place down in Ronald’s basement. He didn’t spare me any of the details. I grab Ronald’s face with my hand and squeeze it hard. He winces in pain, but I don’t relent. He cries out when it becomes too much.

“Leave it, Sagan,” Knox calls absentmindedly. “Can you run and get the others? Dinner’s ready.”

When I let go of Ronald, I half-shove him away. He rocks in his seat. His arms coming out on either side of him, rotating in small rapid circles to keep from falling over. He balances himself but just barely. With a pained wheeze, his head drops back to his chest.

Fucking pathetic.

Rather than give him any more of my attention, I saunter over to my Pretty Boy. When I stop beside him, Knox’s head lifts as he pauses in his task of plating the balsamic roasted carrots. He doesn’t flinch as I reach up and grab him just under his jaw. His pulse jumps as my thumb slides over his artery.

“I’m excited to see what you have in store for us this evening,” I tell him.

Knox can be so creative when he’s angry.

His smile is bright as is the icy glint in his eye. I reach up to use the back of my hand to stroke the bandage covering half his face. My hand moves up and I tuck a short blond hair behind his ear.

“It’s a meal none of us will forget,” Knox mutters. The ice in his gaze melts and the heat that replaces it causes my dick to stir. He’s so fucking pretty. Like an angel on top of a Christmas tree.

But one holding a knife.

Covered in blood.

And glowing red.

Because there is nothing truly angelic about Knox Keele.

He leans up on his tiptoes and tilts his head upward. His wordless demand is met as I lean down and kiss him fully. A hum rattles through my chest. I like the taste of red wine on his lips. It suits him. He opens his mouth and I allow my tongue to snake in and taste him.

A hand suddenly cups my hardening dick, and I grunt, surprised.

When I pull away from Knox’s mouth, I raise a brow and ask him, “Hungry for something other than food?”

“I’m always hungry for sex, Sagan. You should know that by now.” He rolls his eyes. “You can feed me your fat cock later. For now, go get your brother and Beatrix.”

“Watch your tone, Pretty Boy,” I warn darkly. “I might have you choke on this cock now if you don’t behave.”

Knox snickers before stepping away, out of reach, as he goes back to work. “You know I don’t have a gag reflex. There will be no choking. Just happy acceptance.”

Great, now my dick is painfully hard. I stifle a groan, knowing that later that I’ll assuage the fire he’s stoked in my veins. I move toward the threshold of the kitchen.

There’s no need to go further than that. I was wrong about her being in the conservatory. Standing there in the doorway, I watch as my pet descends the flight of stairs with my brother. She’s wearing one of his t-shirts and a new pair of sweatpants. Given the damage along her lower abdomen, she’ll be wearing sweats for a while so nothing irritates her stitches or stalls her recovery. Her mass of curly hair is down this evening, still slightly damp from her shower and flung over one shoulder.

Thatcher’s hand rests on her lower back, there to steady her in case she needs it. One glance at her face though, and I know, despite her injuries, she won’t lean on him. The hard press of her mouth, the stiffness in her shoulders, and the way her chin tilts upward ever so slightly are all signs of a fighter.

Pride fills my hollow chest with warmth and forces it to expand.

When they make it to the bottom of the steps and head toward me, I meet them halfway. I come up to my pet’s other side and fling my arm around her shoulders. Together, the three of us head into the kitchen.

“Found them,” I deadpan to Knox.

“It smells delicious in here, Knox,” Beatrix greets, shooting him a small, sweet smile.

“Of course it does. I made dinner. If it didn’t, you’d know it was Sagan trying to cook,” he says flippantly.

As if he doesn’t love being complimented.

Ronald doesn’t look back up as Thatcher and I walk my Little Viper over to the table. She doesn’t acknowledge him either as she takes her seat and places the cloth napkin on her lap. When it’s neatly spread over her thighs, she looks up at me and my brother.

“Thank you.”

Thatcher bends and kisses her temple. “No need to thank us, Little Sister. You know we’ll do anything for you. We’re family.”

“Sagan, come get the wine,” Knox orders. “Thatcher, carry these platters over, will you?”

Ronald looks up at Beatrix as my brother and I move away. I pause for just a second, taking in the way my pet doesn’t flinch, stiffen, or cower as she meets his cloudy gaze. I smile before I do as Knox has requested. As the three of us move around the kitchen, there’s a weak laugh from our guest at the table.

“Family,” he spits out, disgust twisting his alright pinched expression. “This isn't a family. You’re all just lunatics.”

My Little Viper hums noncommittally. “And you think what you have with Shannon is? Oh, wait… That’s right, Shannon’s no longer with us, is she? I guess we can’t compare our family to one that doesn’t exist—that would be terribly rude.”

From the other side of the kitchen, Knox throws his head back and laughs.

Ronald snarls. The sound is full of pain, rage, and the weak rattle of his poorly functioning lungs. If we don’t kill him, the blood loss and infection ravaging his body certainly will, and soon.

“D-don’t speak about my ShayShay,” Ronald demands.

“My sister can do whatever she wants,” Thatcher corrects, his voice pleasant while his gaze hardens as he peers at our dinner guest over his shoulder. A sharp flash of something like malice hits me in the middle of my chest—it’s just a taste of the wrath Thatcher is feeling. It mirrors my own. “If she wants to sit there and reminisce about how she killed your wife, she can, and you’ll listen.”

As Ronald sputters his outrage weakly, the three of us standing begin bringing food over to the table. Knox has gone all out with dinner tonight. With six different sides, three different wines to choose from, and a roast big enough to feed an army, I know we’re in for a treat. Knox wouldn’t have done all this if there wasn’t something up his sleeve. As I lower myself in the seat beside Beatrix, I make it a point to scoot closer to her. I hate the way Ronald’s glowering at her, even as watery and unfocused as it is. The fact that he can feel anything other than pain infuriates me.

I throw my arm over the backrest of Beatrix’s chair and stare back. One of her hands slips under the table and lands on my thigh. She might as well have burned me. The heat from her touch, followed by the intense focus of adoration in her eyes when she looks up at me makes me feel a hundred feet tall and gets me hard as fuck.

Stitches or not, there’s no way I’m not claiming her sweet pussy tonight.

Knox is the last to join us at the table. In his hand is a small, silver, ornate dish topped with a matching cloche. It looks old but freshly polished. His grin, sharp and full of mischief, is reflected in the silver.

“Ronald, you’re our guest tonight, so I made you something extra special,” he announces as he stops beside the man.

Ronald manages to lift his head to look up at Knox, but it's clearly a struggle for him. Sweat is dripping down the sides of his face and, if it’s even possible, the rest of the blood leeches from his cheeks. This fucker is going to pass out on us soon.

“I don’t want anything from you,” Ronald manages to get out before he has to drop his head back down. He breathes heavily, groans, and then shivers hard.

Knox places the fancy dish right in front of him. Ronald only stares, not bothering to ask questions or to assure Knox he’s not playing any games. Judging by the hard way he’s breathing, Ronald’s just struggling to survive sitting there in his seat. To us, Knox waves his hand over the meal waiting for us.

“Dig in guys, I want our guest to see how much time and effort I put into this night to make it perfect for all of us,” he declares.

The three of us don’t wait. I’m starving, and I know Beatrix must be too since she hasn’t been eating much of the hospital food given to her. Between me and Thatcher, we fill her plate to the brim before we start to serve ourselves.

“I can’t eat this much,” Beatrix says, giving me and Thatcher a rueful smile. “You better help me with this.”

“Trust me, once you have a bite, you might find you’re hungrier than you originally thought,” Thatcher tells her confidently.

Once our plates are full, the three of us wait expectantly for Knox. He hasn’t taken his eye off Ronald. The vehement hatred in his gaze is twisted with mirth and excitement. I smile. This is my favorite side of my Pretty Boy. The one where his viciousness comes out to play. My dick grows even harder. To my surprise, my Little Viper’s hand slides over my crotch and gives me an unexpected, tight squeeze. I lift my hips into her hand. Without taking my eyes off Knox, who places a hand on top of the cloche, I lean toward Beatrix and tell her,

“Don’t tease me, Little Viper. I might just throw you on down on top of this table and fuck you right here.”

She laughs softly. The sound is so easy and pure. My heart squeezes before it suddenly swells. I have her back. The relief that comes with that knowledge causes a knot to form in my throat. It’s rare for me to allow emotions to overwhelm me, and I don’t let them now. But it’s difficult to tamp them back.

“Now, it’s your turn to fill your plate, Ronny ,” Knox declares.

He pulls off the cloche slowly. As it comes away, I see what Knox has prepared for Ronald. Plated on top of a white doily, surrounded by a bed of small colorful, roasted potatoes, and garnished with some type of greenery, is Ronald Reed’s cooked dick.

Beatrix gasps in surprise while I let out booming laughter.

Ronald lets out a whine and tries to pull back in his seat. Tears spill down his cheeks, mingling with the beads of sweat. He starts to shake his head but Knox grabs a fist full of his hair with his free hand and yanks his head up so Ronald is forced to look at him.

With a grin so wide it threatens to split his face into two, Knox says, “ Bon ap-fucking-petit , Ronald.”