28. Beatrix
28
BEATRIX
I thought having people around all day would be overwhelming. Instead, I found it strangely pleasant.
Thatcher took shadowing me literally. He was by my side the entire day. He listened to every phone call, sat with me during several walk-ins, and took notes when the florist came by to discuss updating our partnership. Sagan was around, but mostly he remained out of sight—fixing things here and there like an on-site handyman.
Knox made an appearance later in the afternoon. He carried around a laptop and tried to talk to me about the big renovations he was planning for each part of Bright Starr. A few times he’d tried to get me to sit and discuss them but each time we were interrupted.
“Ugh, this place requires so much attention . Don’t you get, like, a second to breathe? When is your lunch break?” He demanded after we’d been interrupted a third time.
As I carried an arm full of flowers to the back for tomorrow’s service, I told him, “I don’t usually have time for a break so I don’t tend to take one.”
“That has to be some type of HR violation,” Knox whined as he dragged his feet while walking behind me.
I couldn’t help but laugh at that. If this family business had a Human Resources department, I’m sure me working overtime would be the least of their concerns given what I’ve put up with over the years.
“Well, you’ll have to take it up with them,” I told him.
This response had earned me another heavily exaggerated whine.
Out of the three of them, Knox is the most unusual. Not because he chooses to wear skintight, bleach-splattered women’s high waisted bell bottom jeans, a leather t-shirt, and has his nails painted, but he seems to be the most indifferent to the whole situation.
For the rest of day, Knox took up following me and Thatcher around, but he didn’t seem the least bit interested in taking notes or asking questions, like the Hunt twin. Instead, he flirted with Thatcher, who would occasionally indulge him, and he playfully attempted to ruffle Sagan’s feathers when the second twin would make the rare appearance. Most of the time, Knox isn’t successful in that endeavor. Sagan is a cold, quiet man who allows Knox’s words to roll over him like water.
Sometimes, while one or both of the Hunt twins were around, Knox attempted to banter with me. The minute they’re out of sight, however, his friendly smiles would drop away, and I’d be gifted with looks of disdain. They didn’t particularly bother me. After all, I’m used to that type of reaction by most of the people in Chasm. I mentally make it a point to remind myself that it’s not necessarily me he hates. The thought of the twins being hurt or betrayed by a stranger is what keeps him from lowering his guard around me. I like that about him, I decide. His unwavering loyalty is so rare that I can’t help but admire Knox for it.
It doesn’t take long to see that these three are perfect for one another. Somehow they all balance each other out. It's strange being on the outskirts of such a close-knit group. Thatcher and Sagan claim they want me around, but it’s clear I don’t fit. Not exactly, at least. I’m the odd man out.
When seven o’clock rolls around, and we file out of the building for the day, I’m feeling wholly out of my league. I don’t know how to be around these three. I’m not charming and easy-going like Thatcher, unperturbed and confident like Sagan, nor am I outspoken and vibrant like Knox. I’m just… me. Awkward, easily flustered, and painfully self-aware of my inadequacies. Yet, despite all that, I want to make this work. How can I insert myself into their little family? There must be a way to bridge the gap. It’ll be hard. I’ve always had a difficult time connecting with people, but I want what they have so badly that I’ll do anything to find my place amongst the three of them.
Just as I finish locking up for the night, Thatcher takes my hand and pulls me into his side to plant a kiss on the top of my head. I blink in surprise. I’m not used to sweet, gentle touches like this. Is this something I’ll have to get used to? Or is this type of affection a one off from daily interactions?
“Watching you work is a wonder, Little Sister. It’s nice that I won’t have to always be the brains around here,” he says. “When you’re not playing with the bodies that roll in here, I want you in the office with me. I want full access to your mind.”
“I don’t play with the dead,” I mutter as I duck my head, embarrassed by his praise.
“If anyone is touching a body, I assume they’re playing with it since that’s what I’m doing when I have one in my possession,” Thatcher shrugs. “There’s nothing wrong with fooling around with the dead… or soon-to-be dead.”
I giggle nervously through my grimace and, without thinking, I reply, “Actually there’s a lot wrong with it.”
The minute the words slip past my lips, I instantly regret it.
Crap! Why did I say that? My amusement falls away like a boulder in a rockslide. Horror replaces it, freezing around my heart like a flash frost. My hand moves to slap over my mouth while the rest of my body flinches hard. Thatcher’s brows raise slowly, even as he chuckles. When he doesn’t strike out, my hand falls away from my mouth. It turns to a fist at my side as I brace myself for his retaliation.
“Sorry, I shouldn’t have said that,” I mutter, my gaze dropping to our feet. Thatcher’s shoes, new and leather, shine in the parking lot’s single orange streetlamp.
His hand comes up. I see it move toward me. Even though it comes at me slowly, I can’t stop the sharp recoil that causes me to pull back. Thatcher’s fingers slide beneath my chin and force my head to tilt upward. I meet both brown eye and green with bated breath.
“I am not my father, Little Sister,” he says softly. “I don’t hit people. There’s no need when I have a knife that will make a bolder statement, if I choose to make one. Always speak your mind with me, with us . I enjoy knowing you have a sense of humor.”
The tension in my shoulders eases, and they lower away from my ears. My lips curve upward but the smile feels shaky. Thatcher hasn’t done anything to me that would make me question his sincerity but… he is Patrick’s kid. I have to be wary, at least until I can get a feel for these guys.
“Let’s go !” Knox calls out.
I jump in surprise, pulling away from Thatcher’s touch. I turn to find Knox and Sagan hanging out by Knox’s little sedan. Knox slaps the top of the vehicle.
“We got places to go! Hurry up!” he urges.
Sagan says something to him, and Knox rolls his eyes and huffs loud enough for us to hear.
“You’re… going out?” I ask.
“No.” Thatcher takes my hand and guides me toward the others. “ We’re going out.”
I look from Thatcher to the others who are waiting. With each step toward Knox’s car, my heart swells in small increments. My smile reflects the growth. They want me to join them? To do what? It doesn’t really matter. My life usually consists of isolation, either self-imposed for safety or due to being an outcast. Being invited out to do anything is a rare moment I won’t take for granted.
I look up at Thatcher. “Where are we going?”
“Chicago,” Knox offers up quickly, overhearing my question as we approach.
He’s sitting on the roof of his car now, his feet dangling off the side. The bright smile on his face is gorgeous, boyish, and full of hope. Judging by the excitement on his face, he’s a fan of the city.
“We’ll see where the night takes us,” Sagan says.
The hard lines and press of his mouth give away nothing of what he’s feeling. Is he excited to be going out like Knox? Or could he care less about tonight’s plan? He’s so hard to read. As we approach, Sagan opens the back door of the sedan and nudges his head—indicating for me to climb in. Unable to hold back my own excitement, I give him a shy smile before I let go of Thatcher’s hand and slip into the back.
“Knox, back !” Thatcher barks as he rounds the front of the car.
“What? No way!” he whines. “I’ll get us there much faster.”
“You don’t even know where there is, and I’d like to make it to our unknown destination in one piece,” Thatcher objects. “Last time we let you drive we almost died. Since I’d rather not experience that again, get the fuck in the back and keep our little sister company.”
As I settle into the back seat, I take note of how clean it is in here. There’s not a smudge on the windows, a stain on the cloth seats, and the cheap plastic floor mats don’t even have scuffs on them. For some reason, I’m surprised. I expected Knox to be a messy person. I don’t know why exactly, but his exuberance and lackadaisy attitude doesn’t really scream organized and tidy. The other back door opens. Knox flops into the seat beside me and shoots me an annoyed look.
“These two are so fucking controlling .” He slams his car door shut. “God, they might as well have put a horse’s bit into my mouth with how they control me!”
The image is ridiculous, and I can’t help but giggle. Knox’s expression cracks as he chuckles with me. Thatcher climbs into the driver’s seat and adjusts the rearview mirror. Our eyes meet.
“Knox has a flair for the dramatics, ignore him.”
“Dramatic? Me ?” Knox sputters, his expression twists into a look of faux indignation as he glares at the twin that sits in the driver’s seat.
Suddenly, his head whips around to face me. He leans close. The mischievous grin he flashes not only sends a surprising bout of butterflies into flight in my gut, but it also brings bumps up on my arm and sends shivers down my spine. Unease uncoils in my gut. Knox is attractive, but he's definitely a bit of a psychopath.
“Starr Girl,” he says through his toothy grin. “You haven’t seen dramatic yet.”
Thatcher drives in the direction of the Windy City, but just as the lights of the city brighten the dark sky, he takes an exit and veers away from it. Knox chats nonstop. Thatcher seems more than happy to entertain Knox’s conversation, which seems to be just a stream of conscious thought spilling past his lips. Sagan only grunts here and there. I try to keep up but when Knox talks about the different places they’ve traveled or about the latest pop culture gossip, I’m a bit overwhelmed and underprepared.
We grab food at a diner, eating quickly. The guys snarf down burgers, in Knox’s case two, and their fries. I sip on a milkshake, content with just my dessert to hold me over. I’m not finished when the others are, so I put it in a Styrofoam cup and take it with me. I sip it as we head out again.
We drive through the suburbs of Chicago, winding aimlessly through the side streets. The streets are busy at first. Cars congest the streets and people mingle or walk on the sidewalks. A smile grows but falters on my face. The world we drive through is full of normalcy. People walking their dogs, friends running together, neighbors that wave to one another. In Chasm, I can’t just drive around. People know the Bright Starr van and when they see it—when they see me —all my family’s sins are brought up. There’s no escaping the dark cloud that hangs over the Starr name.
I swallow down the bitterness as I stare at the lives that we pass by.
The streets begin to empty as it grows later and darker. I begin to recognize landmarks. We definitely passed that gas station, and I remember that atrocious yellow and brown house with boarded up windows. We drive for another twenty minutes before Thatcher pulls down a dark street between two buildings that look uninhabited.
“Ah man, don’t tell me we’re playing Kiss the Babysitter?” Knox groans beside me.
“You and your need to name shit,” Sagan grumbles, shaking his head in the passenger seat.
Thatcher chuckles as he cuts the car off. “Yes, we are.”
Knox groans louder. “ Fine , but I’m implementing a new rule. With Starr Girl, that’ll be four of us, making things easier. That’s no fun! We’re going to make this harder. Two kisses then we act—got it?”
Seatbelts are unbuckled and the headlights are shut off. No one explains anything as they climb out, and I’m left wondering what game this is and how to play. I’m not exactly sure what we’re doing here either. I don’t remember seeing a bar or anything of any real interest as we cruised down the semi-lit street. Do they know someone here? I zip up my jacket as I climb out of the car. The cold is biting tonight. A wind is winding down the narrow passage, making it feel even chillier.
“Did anyone think to bring Starr Girl something sharp?” Knox asks, falling in beside me as the twins lead us toward the mouth of the alley. He points to something along the side of the building. My eyes follow its direction to find a broken beer bottle. “If not, I found something!”
I stare at the broken glass with a frown. Why would I need that? What could we possibly being doing that would require me to carry around something sharp— Oh! My feet stop moving on their own accord as my mind goes blank with shock. With their backs turned to me, the twins don’t notice, but Knox stops as he reaches into his jacket pocket.
“I was just joking,” he assures me. “Those pieces are too small and not sharp enough. We’ll find you something. Oh, you know what? I can help you into the dumpster I saw before we turned down here. Maybe we can find you a rusty fork? Or at the very least we can turn a spork into a shank.”
Words are impossible to form as I watch Knox pull a pair of fine black leather gloves from his jacket pocket. He yanks each one on, unaware of my gaping. My heart thumps hard against my ribcage before it suddenly takes off.
“You… you’re going to kill someone?” I ask softly.
“Well, yeah, why else—oh, yeah, I guess I should explain the rules of the game since you’ve never played. Sorry, didn’t think of that,” Knox hits his forehead with the heel of his palm. Shooting me a rueful smile, he continues, “The game is to get the babysitter away from the kid, or kids, and to kiss her before we kill her. It can be a peck, a make out session, or whatever, but you got to plant your lips on her skin before you draw blood. If she escapes before you make her bleed, you have to kiss her again. With four of us in the house though, she doesn’t have a lot of chances to escape, so now we’re going to have to do it twice before we can actually kill her.”
He wants me to do what ? This sounds psychotic. Why in heaven's name would I want to participate in this?
Because if you don’t, you’ll be left behind .
The thought comes swiftly, and with it comes a wave of loneliness. It’s followed by a whisper of guilt. Am I really so desperate to feel a part of something that I would participate in a murderous game just to feel included? So I’m not left out on their next adventures? I have a sinking suspicion that the answer to that might be yes.
But can I kill someone in cold blood?
“No,” I whisper my answer out loud.
“What? Never kiss a girl before?” Knox asks, curiously. He starts walking, and I follow, though my footsteps feel heavy. “That’s fine. There’s a first time for everything. You never know, you might like it.” He pauses before his dark blond brows smash together. “Wait, don’t tell me. You’re not a homoph?—”
“I’m not!” I cut him off as I choke my alarm down. “I don’t care about that part.”
Knox let’s out a soft laugh. “Oh good. I got worried for a second. We’re a pretty fluid bunch, so if you’re not good with sharing then?—”
“Knox,” I cut him off, my voice a little screechy. I look from him to the back of the twins’ heads as we round the corner and emerge from the alley. “C-can I not play?”
Knox scoffs as he reaches behind him and beneath his jacket. A moment later, he pulls the sharpest, cleanest knife I have ever seen into view. The blade is about eight inches long and curves slightly at the tip. And… is that a jagged edge? My gasp doesn’t fill my suddenly empty lungs.
“I mean, if you want to just watch, that's fine. Are you a visual learner or something?”
Before I can tell him that I’m not capable of such a gruesome game, Thatcher looks over his shoulder at us. “That’s probably for the best. You’ll find your groove with us eventually, but watching might be the best way to start.”
Relief makes each footstep lighter as I follow the group down the street.
“You can watch, Starr Girl,” Knox agrees. He leans in and adds in a voice so low only I can hear it, “But don’t think for a second I won’t literally throw you under a bus if you decide to grow a conscience and tattle to the police about our game.”
Our eyes meet, and I will him to see that I would never do that. Even if this whole arrangement went south for some reason, going to the police would never be an option. I’m not sure if he sees the resolve or not, but I nod just to emphasize the point before I look straight ahead again.
I watch as both twins pull a black ball cap from the inside of their jackets and shove them on. The visor covers their faces almost completely. Then they each reach into various pockets and pull out leather gloves, similar to Knox’s, they’re almost in sync as they pull them on.
Looking away from the men preparing to do something horrible, I look around us. There’s hardly anyone out now, but that’s no surprise. It’s nearing ten thirty. The neighborhood we enter about five minutes later is quaint. They aren’t big homes, and some aren’t in the best condition. But there aren’t any bars on windows or boarded up buildings. It’s relatively nice, which almost makes this worse. None of the residents here expect people like Thatcher, Sagan, and Knox to swoop in and ravage them.
Sagan suddenly drops back and drapes an arm around my shoulders.
“Knox, go with Thatcher,” he orders before he slows his gait, which forces me to slow as well.
“See you inside,” Knox says, winking at me before trotting up to Thatcher’s side. They take a sharp right to head down another street.
Sagan and I keep straight, but I watch the other two as they disappear.
“Why are we splitting up?” I ask him after a moment.
He doesn’t answer. When I look up at his face, I find his gaze lazily sweeping over the houses we pass. To anyone watching us, we would probably look like a couple out on a nightly stroll. Is that why he has his arm around my shoulders? Should I do something too? I consider putting my arm around his waist. The thought is appealing. I want to touch Sagan, as terrifying as he is. But I don’t know how he would react, and I’m not positive the arm around my shoulder is for appearance or for another purpose. Indecisiveness and a longing for a connection to the man beside me finally lead me to reach out and hook my index finger through his belt loop. Sagan’s head jerks down to look at my hand. I hold my breath. What will he say to this?
When he looks up and continues to look around, I let go of my breath. Apparently, this is fine.
“It would look odd if four people approached a house at once,” Sagan’s words break the silence between us.
I nod even as my stomach knots. How often have they done this? Why do they feel the need to kill? Thatcher seemingly drove around this neighborhood without purpose—but clearly I was wrong. He was hunting for a mark. Is this how they do things? Pick someone at random like this? Do they have any boundaries or is nothing off the table for them?
I long to open my mouth and ask Sagan the questions that build up in my throat.
But now isn’t the time. One, because I don’t think Sagan would waste his breath answering. He is definitely not a talker. Two, because I think we’re nearly there—wherever there is. We cross a street where a small open space is located. It’s only about a block wide and consists of mostly grass, a few trees, a bench each of the four sides, and a rickety old swing set in the middle.
“Walk the perimeter of the park. By the time you get back here, walk across the street to the house with the pink door. It’ll be open, just walk straight in,” he orders quietly, letting his arm drop away. To my surprise, he bends down and kisses my cheek.
An inappropriate heat floods my face. He’s about to kill someone, and yet here I am, blushing! What’s wrong with me? I can’t stop my hand from reaching up to touch where his lips had been.
Sagan steps away and adds, “We’ll see you shortly, Little Viper.”
With that, he turns and heads toward the house he just described. Rather than stand there and watch him leave, I shove both hands into my pockets and take off. My footsteps are quick—my nerves getting the best of me. My conscience wars with rationality. What am I doing ? Shouldn’t I be calling the cops? Maybe I should’ve begged for these men to reconsider doing this. Is it possible to warn the woman inside this house that trouble is coming? I doubt that. Not without the others seeing or hearing me. The blood leeches out of my face as I walk. I shouldn’t be here.
Yet I can’t think of anywhere I should be.
I’m shivering by the time I return to the spot where Sagan left me. I focus on the cold rather than my footsteps as I step out onto the crosswalk and make myself walk toward the small two-story house. The houses on either side are empty. One has a for sale sign in the front yard. The other has no car in the driveway or lights on in the house. The walkway up to the house is cracked and dead weeds have grown and withered between them. The steps don’t look that much better.
When I stop in front of the pink door, I notice it’s cracked open.
My heart thunders in my chest. A roaring in my ears overpowers the small voice that tells me not to do this.
With a shaking hand, I push open the door. The hinges don’t creek or groan to announce my presence as I expected. And when the door shuts behind me, the soft click doesn’t seem so loud in the quiet house. I stop just inside and look around. I’m standing in a family room. Across the space is a set of stairs, and beyond that looks like a kitchen, though it’s dark now. The small family room has a paisley patterned couch, a well-worn wooden rocking chair, and a coffee table. On it sits a bowl of popcorn, an open can of pop, and a cellphone. On the other side of the small room sits one of the first versions of a flat screen tv on a side table. The cartoons that play are from the nineties. I recognize the purple dog and it’s two elderly owners that appear on the screen.
A short scream of terror coming from upstairs jerks my attention away from the cartoon.
My heart skips a beat before it starts to race. The scream is followed by the pounding of hurried footsteps and a heavy sob. There’s a laugh that follows the footsteps. That’s definitely Knox. Rooted to the spot, I listen as his laughter dies off.
The house goes silent.
I don’t realize I’m holding my breath until another scream erupts. Sobs and pleas for mercy follow. There’s a scuffling of footsteps and something breaks. A lamp maybe? Too scared to move from my spot, I just stand there listening as another scream pierces the silence. There’s a thump and then more running. Suddenly, someone’s coming down the stairs. Judging by the heavy, broken gasps, it's the babysitter.
I watch as she appears at the foot of the steps. To my surprise, the babysitter is an older woman. I don’t know why I expected a teenager, but the blonde woman is in her mid-forties. Her hair is down and in disarray, but I catch sight of her blotchy red face and the tears that stream down her cheeks before she hooks a sharp right and disappears into the kitchen, having not seen me in her haste.
There’s a twist of guilt in my gut that makes me nauseous. What did this woman do to deserve this? To be terrorized and tormented in such a manner?
Behind her, Thatcher descends the stairs. His jacket and hat are missing now, though he still wears the gloves he shoved on earlier. My stepbrother’s steps are soft, slow, and deliberate—like the beat of a metronome. In his hand, a knife just like Knox’s glints in the soft, warm yellow light. I can see blood on the blade. He’s so handsome it hurts. With a chiseled jawline, dark black brows that sit over and emphasize dual-colored eyes, and a lean body that moves lithely like a jungle cat—everything about him is striking. Thatcher is void of any physical flaws and radiates an unshakable confidence.
The smile on his face, given at any other time, wouldn’t be considered menacing. But right now, it gives him an almost demonic look. Especially as he reaches up to smooth his jet black hair back out of his face and into place, streaking it with the babysitter’s blood. Before Thatcher gets to the bottom of the stairs, the babysitter makes a reappearance. She scrambles backward out of the kitchen. Her hands are up in front of her as she pants and sobs.
“Please, stop this!” she cries out between heavy sobs. “Leave me alone!”
Sagan emerges from the kitchen, like a devil emerging from a black hole. His dark hair drapes over his eyes, his ball cap helping shield the rest of his face. My stepbrother’s presence shifts the very energy in the room. Like a thick, dark, ominous cloud—darkness unfolds and crawls toward every corner of the family room.
I shudder. But not with fear.
Sagan’s presence might spell death and pain for this babysitter, but for me—there’s something inexplicably thrilling about standing before him. It brings attention to a soft hum of energy coursing over my body that he seems to be the cause of.
In a move so fast I hardly manage to catch it, Sagan snatches her wrist and yanks her toward his chest. Swiftly, he bends and plants two kisses—one on either check—before his blade slices through the air. I gape as two thin slashes land where his lips had been seconds ago. Sagan lets her go and Thatcher laughs lightly as the babysitter stumbles back with a screech.
Through the guilt and fear, something ugly tightens in my gut. I don’t want to examine too closely why I might be feeling jealous right now. There’s nothing about this woman’s situation that I envy. Not even Sagan’s lips on her.
Right?
The babysitter screeches again as she backs away from Sagan. I can see the clean tears through her shirt and the blood that stains it. More blood stains her sweatpants as it drips from the wounds on the back of her thighs and across a calf. Her socked feet are soaked in her own blood, causing her to slip around on the wood floor. As her hands come up to protect her face, I notice that blood covers her palms.
“Take the kids. I don’t even fucking like them!” she pleads. “Just let me go!”
I watch as she realizes that Thatcher is to her right as she passes the stairs. She flinches away before her backtracking gets faster. She knocks over a small table and all the family photos on it. She trips over the area rug. It takes her to her butt, but the babysitter doesn’t stop scrambling, crawling backward away from both twins.
Thatcher steps down off the last stair and stands shoulder to shoulder with his brother. Staring at them is like staring at a yin and yang. Sagan’s expression is unreadable and hard, his eyes dark and his body tense. Each step he takes is thought out and heavy. Thatcher, on the other hand, smiles brightly. His shoulders are relaxed, and his stroll is almost jaunty. His expression is warm, inviting even. His eyes are a little wider and his grin may be just a bit too manic, but for all intents and purposes, Thatcher looks like he could be her best friend.
Even while he holds a blade covered in the woman’s blood.
As the twins stalk her progress, Knox comes down the stairs riding the banister that wobbles violently under his slight weight.
“We each got our kisses!” he says merrily. “You know what that means, guys!”
I don’t know what that means but the babysitter seems to. She screams before she twists and scrambles to her feet. Her attempt to race for the door is thwarted, however, as she realizes I’m blocking her exit. Our eyes meet. Her brown eyes are full of tears.
“Move!” she orders. Her hands come up, as if she’s going to shove me as she approaches.
For a half a second longer, I pity her. No one deserves this. But as that half a second passes, my back stiffens, and anger burns away the guilt and compassion. Life’s unfair and sometimes bad shit just happens. My entire life has been one hardship after another. I have suffered. Why should she get a break when I never did?
Too bad this woman didn’t have stepbrothers who could step in and stop the inevitable. Sucks to be her. For once in my life, I’m not the one at the end of someone’s cruelty. The relief in that though, as perverse as it, helps me set my shoulders and brace myself.
As the babysitter tries to shove me, my hands come up to protect myself. I step into the motion and push her back. Her acrylic nails rake down my arm as she tries to grab and yank me down to the ground with her. The blood on her hands and nails weakens her hold, and her grip slips and she falls to the side.
I stare down at her, feeling oddly numb. Her tears and pleas as the three men close in and circle her don’t faze me. They remind me of my own unheard cries for help. I wonder where my mercy is and where my heart has taken off to. The guys descend, plunging their knives into the woman. Her screams crescendo, growing loud with agony. Blood goes flying. The guys let her go every now and then, giving her a moment of hope before they dash it.
I watch it all like a third-party spectator. This could be a movie for as unmoved as I am.
Finally, the screaming stops. All three men stand up, almost as one, and stare down at their kill.
“I’m pretty sure Sagan’s lips didn’t actually touch her skin,” Knox says suddenly. “That’s cheating, Sagan.”
I’m not sure how Knox would know that since he’d been upstairs when the babysitter had dashed into the kitchen where Sagan had been waiting. Maybe he just likes to stir the pot.
Rather than respond, Sagan turns around slowly. His gaze finds mine, and for a second, I’m pretty sure I see something more evil than a devil staring back at me from the depths of his cold, lifeless eyes. So stunned by the intensity of the darkness, I don’t notice him coiling. Sagan moves so quickly, there’s no chance to react. His hand wraps around my neck as his leg comes out and kicks at my ankles. My scream of pain and surprise is cut off as his grip tightens around my neck as I fall. With Sagan’s hold, it's a controlled drop to the ground.
Disoriented, scared, and shocked, I start to struggle.
“Wait, what are you doing?” I shriek. My question is ignored as he yanks down my pants and underwear with a hard jerk with one hand. The motion answers my question. I push at his chest frantically. “No! Wait, you're covered in someone’s blood!”
Panicked and scared, I thrash beneath him. It does me no good. Sagan yanks down the zipper of his pants while I push against him. His large frame, thick with understated muscles, doesn’t budge. I manage to knock off his cap, which goes flying, but it doesn’t stop him. His dark bangs hang in his face, covering most of his eyes, but his teeth flash in a feral, terrifying grin. It’s beautiful and horrific, especially with the splatter of blood that’s painted on his handsome face. Quickly, my stepbrother straddles me and positions himself at my entrance. Just like his knife had plunged into the babysitter, who’s warm body lays by my head, Sagan’s dick sinks into me. The fiery sting as he stretches me is agonizing. My scream of pain comes with more thrashing. He lays over my body, his weight making it harder for me to fight him off.
“Hm, Little Viper, your scream is much prettier than our victim’s was,” Sagan growls into my neck as he snaps his hips back and forth. I try to arch my back to make it less intense, but Sagan leans his hips into my pelvis, forcing me to lay flat against the floor.
“Roll, Sagan,” Thatcher orders sharply.
Without hesitation, his brother does as he’s told, bringing me with him. I cry out at the shift in position. When I’m on top, I brace my hands against his chest and desperately try to push off. It’s a fruitless attempt to escape. Sagan grabs my hips and uses them to control his thrusting from the bottom. I’m just a toy to him right now. A place to put his dick, and god it hurts.
But also… surprisingly good in a strange, unbelievable way.
What does it say that, in his murderous state, Sagan sought me out? He needs me. His feral thoughts and hard body crave me at this very moment. There’s hunger and desperation in the brutal way he drives into my body—speaking volumes to their depths. A warmth begins to gather in my veins, and I can feel my body begin to relax. Sagan’s movements become slicker. My next cry is still filled with pain but now also holds a hint of pleasure.
“You’re getting so fucking wet,” Sagan groans. “You scream and put up a fight, but your body aches to be filled by me. You love this.”
I don’t… or maybe I do? This time, my cry is more of a wail that shifts into a heady moan. I find my hips jerking instinctually to meet Sagan’s hard thrusts. My pussy clenches down hard around my stepbrother. The involuntary action causes Sagan’s eyes to roll into the back of head and he swears between clenched teeth.
A hand grabs both of my braids that rest down my back and it uses them to yank my head to the side from behind. I gasp as Sagan slams my body down harder on him.
“I didn’t realize you wanted to play, Little Sister,” Thatcher drawls. His chest presses against my back. “What a good guard dog, sitting by the door for us.”
His words are a jumbled mess as his brother builds a conflicting storm of pleasure and pain between my legs. I chase both, unable to stop myself from moving in time with Sagan now. His urgency is spilling into me, and I can’t help but chase after the release he’s climbing toward. Thatcher shoves my body forward, using the base of my two braids to guide me down. My hands land on Sagan’s chest. In this position, Sagan has to work harder to move my body up and down his long, hard length.
“Take a deep breath, Little Sister, your other big brother wants a piece of your tight pussy,” Thatcher grows into my ear as he practically lays on top of me.
Wait… What?
His dick presses into me, right along with his brother’s. My scream is nearly supersonic. The immediate pain from his intrusion is mind blowing. This isn’t possible. My body wasn’t made to handle two men at a time. I’m only human. And god, I’m most certainly feeling my mortality now. I fight both men, scratching and biting as they work to tear me in two. Thatcher’s grip on my braid tightens to keep me from bashing the back of my skull into his face while Sagan uses my hips to work me down both of them.
“Fuck,” Knox whispers from nearby. “How is this hot? I didn’t think I’d enjoy sharing but…”
His words trail off as I scream louder, the shearing pain is inconceivable as the twins stretch me to impossible lengths. The sounds of heavy breathing, the feel of their scalding hot skin, and their moans, all intertwining together—crescendoing and petering off… I can feel and hear it all and it somehow eases the pain. And as the pain subsides, between the two of them, desire is stirred back up. I whimper, confused by my body’s reaction to these two.
“Just a little more,” Thatcher promises. “You’re doing so good, getting nice and wet for us, Little Sister. God, you’re absolutely perfect.”
I want to deny that I could possibly be enjoying this. The pain is beyond my wildest dreams. The rough way Thatcher works himself into my body then starts to move in time with his brother makes me feel as if I’m about to be torn to shreds. My tears and cries are ignored. No, not ignored—they seem to fuel the twins’ excitement. They move faster, their breathing erratic. Yet I can’t deny the mounting tension gathering between my legs.
Thatcher jerks my head to the side using my braids and kisses me down the length of my neck and jawline. He nips at my ear and then licks up the back of my neck where beads of sweat are gathering. My shiver has nothing to do with the rough way the Hunts are using me. Neither does the shaky breath that slips past my lips.
Beneath me, Sagan snarls, his grip tightening on my hips as he stills. Thatcher doesn’t stop moving but his thrusting becomes frantic while his brother’s cum fills me.
“Give her to me,” Knox demands suddenly.
“Knox…” Thatcher growls a warning I don’t understand.
He jerks my head up and twists it so I’m facing Knox. I find him crouched down beside us, watching where we’re all joined. His pupils are blown wide, and his breathing is ragged, as if he’s here working his way into my body as well—tangled up in a part of the chaos.
“Your cum is mine. She doesn’t get to let it go to waste by letting it drip down her thighs or gather in her panties. I want to devour you, Thatcher. I want to taste you in any capacity that I can. The same with you, Sagan. So don’t fucking fight me.” The look Knox gives me is a mixture of crazed delight and a challenge—as if he expects me to object to this. Whatever this is. When he tears his eyes away to look back at Thatcher, he snarls, “Now, give her to me .”
Thatcher’s hips snap forward three more times before he shoves himself as far as he can go into my body. He stills while his release mixes with Sagan’s. He shoves my face down against his brother’s chest as he cums loudly. I can feel it, cum from both of them warming up my body from the inside out. My body trembles in shock while I cry softly. After a moment, Thatcher finishes with a pleased groan. He lets go of my hair and strokes a hand down my spine.
“You’re such a good girl, Beatrix, letting us play with you like this. I knew you were special,” he coos. A wave of heat rolls over me and I choke on an unexpected groan of pleasure at the praise I’m not quite sure I deserve. “Come here, Pretty Boy.”
Knox moves closer before lowering himself onto the floor.
“Ready?” Thatcher asks. I’m not sure who he’s talking to, but I shake my head. I can’t do this. I don’t think I can take Knox too. I’ll die. I just know it.
Suddenly, Thatcher pulls out of me. At the same time, Sagan’s hands disappear off my waist. His brother’s replace them, and I’m pulled off Sagan with ease. I whimper at how stretched I feel and the sharp pain of the swift movement. I’m not in the air for long. Somehow, Thatcher manages to place me right on top of Knox’s face, my legs straddling the blond man beneath me.
“What the— AH !” I almost levitate right off Knox as his tongue dives into my core.
Thatcher captures both of my hands and pulls them behind my back while, at the same time, Knox grabs my thighs to hold me in place. Knox’s tongue slides through my folds, teases my clit, then dives into my pussy like a man on a mission.
“Knox!” My shriek is strained and loud. “No, no! No, wait…Oh… oh , yes…”
My eyes squeeze shut as the exquisite feeling of his wet, hot tongue works me up. Holy shit. Oh… shit . My hips grind down onto Knox’s face—this motion more deliberate than when I’d been on top of Sagan. How could I, why would I, fight this when it feels so good?
Knox’s tongue is everywhere at once, soothing the ache left behind from the others, and working to teases away all thoughts of pain. There’s a skill in the way Knox’s tongue moves, practiced like he’s done this before plenty of times. He seems to know exactly what to do and how. This isn’t a frenzied thing between us. Knox is deliberately working to get my body to bear down and push out the twins’ cum and it’s working. Oh god, is it working . My pussy flutters and clenches as his tongue slides into me and laps away at the mess there.
“ Knox ,” I whimper his name. “Please, don’t stop.”
In the back of my head, I know I should worry about suffocating him. The way I’m pressing all my weight down and grinding against this pretty man’s face beneath me is probably a good way to kill him. But as Knox’s tongue teases my clit and gives it a suck, I can’t find it in me to care.
Behind me, someone groans. I don’t look back to see who it is. I’m overcome with the swift shift from the pain of being used by two men to the absolute mind-blowing pleasure of Knox’s mouth. Every short lick, lazy lap, and twirl of his tongue is not only a surprise, but an experience like none other. My nipples pebble so tightly I wince at their sudden sensitivity and the way my bra shifts over them.
I groan Knox’s name, not caring that I might be too loud. The twins will quiet me if it becomes a problem, I’m sure of it.
“Knox has a very talented mouth, doesn’t he, Little Sister?” Thatcher asks into my ear, suddenly behind me. His lips plant kisses on my neck again before he speaks once more. “I know I love it when it’s wrapped around my cock. Our Pretty Boy has many talents.”
I whimper as my legs begin to tremble.
“Come on, Little Sister,” Thatcher urges, his voice twisted with glee. “Be a good girl and cum for us. Get our Pretty Boy’s face filthy .”
Somehow, my stepbrother’s words send me over the edge. My body bears down on Knox’s face and I cum hard. Thankfully, it seems that my body only releases an ungodly amount of fluid when there’s something inside of me. Otherwise, I’m pretty sure Knox would be drowning right now. Still, I can feel how wet his face is as I continue to grind against it. As I lean into the body-quaking, soul-soothing orgasm Knox has drawn out, Thatcher’s hand wraps around the front of my neck. He buries his nose in the crook of my neck and breathes in deeply.
“Do you feel that, Little Sister?” he whispers. “All that power given to us by this one measly soul. We control life and death, pleasure and pain… Isn’t it exhilarating ? You don’t have to participate in our games, but maybe one day you’ll like to know what it feels like to finally be better than anyone in this godforsaken world. When that time comes, we’ll be here ready to play with you.”
The thought is tempting. Clearly these three have no problem with it. I’ve got one foot over the line, having already condemned four people to death. Could I commit this atrocity myself? I don’t know. And right now, I’m too spent to ponder such a horrible thought.
Thatcher pulls me off Knox, whose face glistens with my arousal, and into his chest. I sag against my stepbrother, breathing hard. Knox sits up only to be tackled back to the ground by Sagan, who kisses him hard on the mouth. Knox groans and kisses him back.
When Sagan pulls away, Thatcher says, “We need to get the body in the car.”
“The kids?” I ask, breathless and exhausted. “You didn’t…”
I can’t say the words. One, because they’re too horrible to even speak out loud but also because my ability to think and speak seem to have been rendered useless after being used so fully like this.
“We don’t kill kids, they’re too easy. They scurried into a closet when they heard the commotion, and I braced the door with a chair. Their parents will find them later,” Knox says as if this was obvious. His blue eyes pierce me with a speculative look before he gets to his feet. I don’t know what that means, but I have a feeling I’ve been deemed worthy in his eyes.
Worthy of what though, I don’t know.