27. Beatrix
27
BEATRIX
“ Y es, I understand,” I reply to the man on the other end of the line. “But no, I will not put down your cat. If Mitten’s were already gone then?—”
“But she won't be able to move on without Mittens! She'll haunt me!”
Bracing my hands on the edge of the embalming table, I squeeze my eyes. The deceased laying on said table doesn’t complain that I’ve stopped working. I appreciate it because it takes a second to gather the patience I need to handle this conversation.
“Mr. Matthews, I'm pretty sure your wife’s ghost would be more upset knowing you killed her cat rather than just taking care of it.”
“But her ghost?—”
As my client talks, one of the double doors to the preparation room opens. The movement causes me to flinch hard in surprise. No one comes in here this time in the morning unless it’s to fight. My mind races at the same time. What will it be this morning? A barrage of hateful drunken or drug-induced threats and insults, or will I get hit with a flying shoe?
My flinch is uncalled for, as are the thoughts that came with it.
The person who walks into the room, who chuckles at my reaction, is neither Patrick nor my mother. But it is a Hunt. Is this…Sagan? No, wait, this is Thatcher. The smile clinging to his mouth and the way his hair is slicked back, out of his face, tells me who it is faster than a name tag would. Dressed in a tailored navy-blue button up, freshly ironed and pressed, with a maroon tie and black tailored pants—he looks like he could be a model in a casket magazine.
I let out a long sigh of relief that it’s him and not his father. Despite seeing their bodies rolled out of the house on a gurney, hosting their service yesterday, and brushing out their ashes from the cremation chamber this morning—mixed with Sebastian’s—apparently my body still thinks my stepfather and Mom are still around to torment me.
Ignoring Thatcher, I straighten and walk around the table while I turn my attention back to my potential client on the phone.
“I don’t have it in me to kill your cat, Mr. Matthews. Your wife might end up haunting me if I did that. But what I can do is help you find the perfect urn for her.” My gloves come off with a snap. I drop them next to the embalming machine with a sigh. “When would you like to come in? Or, if you'd like, I could email you a link with all the options we have available.”
Thatcher leans up against the wall beside the doors, crossing his arms over his chest as he tracks my progression over to the old desk in the far corner of the room. There, my laptop and notebook wait for me. Though I pay him no attention, I can’t help but feel his eyes caressing me. His attention brings a bodily response I can’t control. Beneath my smock and blouse, my nipples harden and a shiver of desire cause bumps to race down my covered arms.
After last night with his brother, which has left me sore and uncomfortable, I can’t begin to understand this reaction. I should be recoiling from even the thought of being touched by anyone.
“I'm getting that damn cat put down, and it’s going in the jar with my wife, so let’s find one big enough to accommodate both of them,” Mr. Matthews snaps, bringing my thoughts back to my current client.
An objection clings to my lips. It's not the first time someone put their pet down to be with the deceased and it won't be the last. It'll happen whether I protest or not. If I want Bright Starr to stay afloat, I need customers, so I keep my opinion on the matter to myself. I give myself a second to choke down my denial.
“Alright, Mr. Matthews,” After flopping down into the rolling desk chair, I skim my finger over the mousepad and my laptop’s screen comes to life. I check my schedule and bite back a heavy sigh at the long day ahead. “Let me know when you want to bring Mittens’ remains in. As for your wife’s body, I’ll go get her mid-morning between appointments.”
“Whatever, take your time. She can rot as far as I’m concerned. Old hag…”
Ugh, the disrespect… I squeeze my eyes shut again. “Alright, I’ll reach out again shortly, Mr. Matthews.”
With that, I quickly say my farewells and tap the earpiece to hang up.
Thatcher pushes off from the wall, his arms dropping to his sides, and he saunters over to me. I look up to find him smiling as he stops on the other side of the desk.
“Mittens?” he inquires with a chuckle. “Since when do we do pet cremations and burials? I didn’t see anything on the website about this.”
We . The word causes my chest to constrict painfully. He’s taking Bright Starr away from me. My life has revolved around this business. While it hasn't been a great life, it’s been my life. From early on, most of my memories have been under this roof. Running through the halls, watching my mother tend to the deceased, learning how to handle the grieving… Bright Starr was a big part of my past and was supposed to be my future. Now it’s being stripped away from me.
My expression must give away my feelings because his smile shifts, softening as his gaze travels over my face.
“I promise you, Little Sister, that you're still very much a part of Bright Starr,” he waves his hand around. “No one is kicking you to the curb. Think of us as an extra set of hands. Surely it would be easier to have more people around to help you?”
He’s right, it would be nice to have more help, but still...
“Besides, you didn’t really want to run this place anyway, did you?” he asks. I blink rapidly, not sure what he’s getting at. His smile grows. There’s a knowing glint in his sage green and light brown eyes that makes me uncomfortable. Like he sees and knows too much. “You left here at eighteen to become a teacher, right?” At my gasp of surprise, Thatcher chuckles. “Don’t look at me like that. You know we’ve been watching you for a while, and while we watched, we did our research. I know a lot about you, Little Sister. Just think, we’re lifting a responsibility off your shoulders that you didn’t even want.”
I look away, uncomfortable under his sharp gaze.
“Maybe you’re right,” I mutter. “It’s just going to take a bit to wrap my head around all this.”
The sound of movement pulls my attention back to my stepbrother.
Thatcher comes around the desk, then leans his lower back against the edge of it as he looks down at me. Up close, I can feel currents of electricity arch from him to me, running over my skin before sinking beneath it. My blood warms and I can't breathe properly. As I stare up into his eyes, I notice a twinkle of madness sparkling down at me. How did he hide it when he was Chase, not Thatcher?
“Take all the time you need.” He regards me curiously. “Are you always down here this early? The hours on the door and online mention that Bright Starr doesn't open until eight.”
I glance at the clock on my computer screen. I suppose six forty-five might be a bit early.
Clearing my throat, I ruefully reply, “There's lots to do, and if I don't get started early, I'm here late.”
Thatcher claps his hands and rubs them together while he nods. “Alright, then I'll make it a point to be down here with you bright and early each day. I’m a morning bird myself so I promise to always be on time.”
“How is this going to work?” I frown, twisting the chair so that I’m facing him. “Do you know anything about running a business?”
“I’m great with numbers and even better with people. I say that's an excellent foundation for a business owner, don't you?” He chuckles as I give him a skeptical look. “I don't claim to know what I'm doing, but I am a quick learner. I’ve been studying how you run things here, looking over old finances that were kept up at the house, and I’ve been reading through your textbooks in my downtime. I'll shadow you for a bit until I get the swing of things around here, but it shouldn’t take me long to take over administrative duties. For now, think of me as your assistant and financial manager.”
Thatcher is going to be my shadow? My gaze sweeps over his lean figure—with a waist that tapers inward, wide shoulders, and long legs—all covered in inconspicuously expensive clothes and then to his pale, handsome face that could’ve been carved by Michelangelo. How the hell am I going to get any work done with him around? My cheek flame red hot as I think about what the two of us have done together.
And how I hope we might end up doing it all again.
Yeah, no, I’m definitely not going to get any work done with Thatcher Hunt nearby all day. I guess I should just resign myself to a whole bunch of late nights in the near future where I’ll be able to catch up while he sleeps.
“And the others?” I ask.
“Knox loves working a room full of people. He thrives off attention. He’ll take over host duties for viewings and services.”
Oh… I blink in surprise. I don’t have to deal with the people of Chasm? That sounds really appealing. And to hear that Knox enjoys attention… Maybe that’s what I need to give him if I’m going to win the pretty blond over. I tuck that piece of information away to study later.
“Just so you’re aware, he plans to update the interior of this place,” Thatcher continues. “I’ll make sure everything he wants to do won’t affect our hours of operation though, so don’t worry about that. As for Sagan, he’ll be our maintenance guy. He can do the runs for the bodies that need to be picked up too. He’s going to love that shit.”
My head bobs as I nod absentmindedly. This is going to be complicated. I tick through the things that need to be done in a day and how I'll possibly manage training Thatcher and the others. Already my days are so busy. The thought of taking on more work feels daunting.
“Hey.” Thatcher’s fingers slide beneath my chin and tilt my face upward. His strange eyes stare down at me, piercing and intense. “I promise, with our help, this business will go from surviving to thriving.”
This close, I can’t help but breathe him in. The hint of his cologne is strangely comforting, as is his touch. The subtle hints of sweet fruit mixed with leather and sandalwood make for a delicious and inviting scent. Tension leaks from me slowly. As stupid as it is to place my faith into complete strangers, dangerous strangers, I can’t find it in me to be too worried. This will work out if they say it will. They’ve thought about this long and hard.
Thatcher must see my acceptance or is able to read my body language, because a new smile curls the corners of his mouth. Carefully, he lowers himself down into a crouch between my legs. His hand drops from my chin so that he can place both of his hands on my thighs. The touch is startlingly intimate.
“So trusting…” he murmurs. “You won’t regret it, Little Sister.”
“This is so strange,” I admit, having to look away from the speculative gleam in Thatcher’s eyes. “Three serial killers taking over a funeral home…”
“That isn't the strange part,” he denies, shaking his head. “What's strange is how easily the wicked find and prey upon you. How can someone like you attract such darkness?”
His words are a kick to my gut. Countless time I’ve wondered that same question. Thatcher must be good at reading people—I suppose you have to be in his field of work—because his amusement drifts away, his pupils narrowing. His gaze travels over my face. The grip he has on both my upper thighs tightens slightly before his hands rub them up and down in a comforting gesture.
“The world is such a cruel place, isn’t it?” he asks. At my nod, his smile returns slowly and colder than before, yet no less handsome. “No one else will touch you ever again, Beatrix.”
Unnerved by his intense gaze, I let out a shaky laugh and give his hands a pointed look.
“You're touching me.” I think about Sagan and what he did to me last night. “And your brother... he enjoys touching me.”
Thatcher's answering grin is breathtaking. I feel unworthy of it.
“I won’t promise that we won’t touch you.” His hands come to rest too high on my thighs to ignore. My heart races and my core clenches around nothing. “But I don’t think you’d want that anyway. You seem to enjoy our touch.”
He stands then, giving me the chance to breathe easy. I suck in a shaky breath and swing my chair forward as I look away from my stepbrother.
Swallowing hard, I force myself to ask, “You have everything planned out for yourselves, but what do you want from me out of all of this?”
His answering laugh is loud and carries an edge to it. “What do I want from you? Oh, Beatrix. That’s easy. I want to possess you so thoroughly you cannot fathom a life without me. I want to be the one you direct your prayers to, and I want to answer them in any capacity that I see fit. What I want is to devour your soul—to entomb it inside of me where I will keep it for all of eternity because it belongs to me. You flaunted it at me the night we met, now I wish to steal it.”
My limbs go limp in shock. He’s crazy. I want to ask what’s wrong with him. But I don’t. I can’t. If I did, I’d have to ask myself the same question. Because it’s taking everything in me not to beam up at him, to fight the urge to wrap my arms around his neck and kiss him. I’ve never been so wanted in all my life, and I can’t help but love it.
Swiftly, Thatcher bends at the waist and surprises me with a kiss. Without hesitation, I return it, savoring it. His lips meld against mine, and I let out a breathy sigh of contentment. Thatcher pulls away only to kiss the side of my mouth and then down my neck. I tilt my head to the side, shivering as his kisses elicit little sparks of delight in their wake. When he pulls away abruptly, I can’t stop the way my bottom lip juts outwards.
Thatcher straightens with a chuckle. “Don’t pout, Little Sister. If I get carried away, we may end up fucking on top of that corpse. I’d hate to ruin your work like that.”
I gasp in disgust at the thought. The sound only causes Thatcher to laugh softly again.
“Don’t be a prude. I hear morticians fuck corpses all the time,” he says dismissively. “Don’t tell me you’ve never tried. I myself have seen a stiff cock on a corpse before.”
“N-no!” I sputter after a second of complete and utter shock. “I’ve never touched a corpse inappropriately before.” I shiver at the thought. “But that’s why funeral homes hesitate to hire male morticians. When presented with a woman’s body, alive or dead, it seems some men can’t keep it in their pants.”
Thatcher shrugs. “I wouldn’t judge you if you had, Little Sister. We all have our own kinks.”
“Sex with a corpse isn’t mine,” I assure him weakly as I grimace. Needing to change the subject before my stomach turns inside out, I push out of my chair and stand. “Mr. Jones there needs to be refrigerated since he’s done. When I’m done doing that, I have a call to make if you want to listen in.”
My stepbrother nods before he saunters over to the body on the table. Before necrophilia can be brought back up, I bend down and swipe the bag of ashes off the floor beneath the desk and plop them on top of it.
“We also need to get rid of these. I didn’t think you would care if I threw Patrick away, but I figured I’d at least run it by you first just in case,” I say. Thatcher whirls around to face me, his smile vanishing as his gaze drops to the large, clear bag full of ashes. “He’s mixed in with Sebastian and Mom, so I’m not exactly sure how much of this is him. Oh, that reminds me, you have to clean the ashes out of the furnace after each cremation—you’ll break the machine if you don’t.”
“Good to know,” Thatcher mutters, his glare trained to the bag. “Dump them all in the trash. That’s where they belong. While you do that,” he turns to face Mr. Jones, “I’ll freeze his ass.”
I nod before I slip out of the preparation room, leaving Thatcher to handle Mr. Jones so that I can throw the last of what remains of the people who tormented me away.