31. Beatrix
31
BEATRIX
I t’s not cold enough for the rain pelting down onto the windshield to turn to snow, but if it continues after it gets dark, it will. It hasn’t snowed much this year. It would be nice to get a dusting before spring arrives. While the town, and most of Indiana, complains about the snow, I love it. This year, I might get a chance to actually enjoy it. The last time I did, I was a young girl, and I’d built an igloo in the woods out back then camped in it for three days. It had been the best three days ever.
“Why are you smiling?”
I jerk in my seat, my hands tightening around the steering wheel as I’m pulled away from my thoughts. I spare a glance at Thatcher, who’s watching me from the passenger seat of the funeral van—the one we use for death calls like where we’re headed now.
I’ve been actively trying not to think about the Hunt twin beside me. His presence is so intimidating. Not like Sagan’s, whose dark, brooding aura is almost like a living and breathing entity that reaches out to caress me, reminding me that he’s there and of what he can do to me. Thatcher’s presence is much more subtle but certainly noticeable. It kind of reminds me of what it would be like to work directly under the CEO of a large company. Where you want to aim to please him in order to not get the boot. There’s an ache to seek out the approval of this stunning, dangerous man.
Thatcher raises a dark brow, the one that sits over his sage-green eye, and his mouth pulls into a half smile. The gesture makes a cheekbone pop and it’s… distracting. My cheeks flame hot as I look away. I swallow hard as I focus on the road of ahead us.
“I was just thinking about how I hope this turns to snow,” I admit softly.
Thatcher chuckles. “Don’t let Knox hear you talk like that. He hates the cold, but he hates snow most of all.”
I bite the side of my cheek to hold back my knee-jerk response.
“What?” Thatcher urges. “Go on, say it.”
Shoot, he must still be watching my face. My chest constricts in a momentary bout of panic. He told me I can say what I want, that he’s not his father. So far, he’s proven that. Over the past few days, I’ve never once heard him raise his voice or a hand or utter a cruel word toward anyone. Not to me, or to the others. Until he gives me a reason to not trust him…
“I was going to say that, um, Knox seems to hate a lot of things.”
Thatcher laughs warmly. “He’s quite opinionated, isn’t he?”
Nodding, I bite my bottom lip to try to keep from smiling, but I fail. Deciding that it’s ok to speak, I add, “But I like it. It’s nice knowing where he stands rather than having to wonder.”
“It’s refreshing once you get used to it,” Thatcher agrees.
I think I already am , though I don’t say this part out loud.
Knox is a bit of a wild card. Compared to Thatcher who’s laid back and easy-going, cunning and watchful, or Sagan whose ominous energy is something I can’t quite get a read on, Knox is both sunshine and a thunderstorm all rolled into one. You never know if you’re going to get his breathtaking smile or get snapped at. When he’s in a good mood, I really enjoy his presence. He gives off this innocent, boyish mischievous energy mixed with sass and a confidence I could never replicate.
“Just wait until he really starts to open up, it’ll get insufferable,” Thatcher warns with a chuckle. “Oh, and if he does get there, watch out. It means he likes you, and at that point, he’ll demand a pound of flesh from you.”
My mind gets snagged on that if. Knox doesn’t like me? I knew he was wary of me, and rightly so I supposed given our current situation, but… The fact that he simply doesn’t like me is disappointing. I shake away that thought. It’s ok if he doesn’t. He wouldn’t be the first person who finds me difficult to be around. I choke down that bitter pill and focus on the rest of what Thatcher said.
“What does a pound of flesh mean?” I ask.
My stepbrother laughs. “He’s taken a toe from both me and Sagan. He managed to talk me into it when I realized he wasn’t joking. You should ask Sagan about how Knox got his pound of flesh from him. It's a fun story.”
A squeak of terror slips out before I can censor myself. I risk shooting a glance at Thatcher’s face to see if he’s joking. He sees me checking his expression and laughs.
“I’ll show you my right foot if you want,” he offers.
I shake my head, not needing to see proof. I’ve seen what these three are capable of.
“What do you like about the snow?” Thatcher asks, redirecting the conversation.
I shrug. “The woods behind the house get super quiet and still. It turns into a wonderland that I enjoy spending time in.”
“You didn’t get a lot of that, did you?”
Frowning, I look over at Thatcher. “What do you mean?”
“Silence,” he explains with a knowing smile. “Patrick liked the sound of his own voice. And, from what I’ve overheard during an evening visit, I know Lauren wasn’t shy about speaking up.”
My whole body tenses at the sound of his father’s and my mother’s names. A well of loathing boils up. It scalds my insides and leaves me breathless. The two most wretched people in my life are gone, dead, yet just their names still cause a visceral reaction.
Suddenly Thatcher’s hand comes up. He caresses my cheek with his knuckles, and I flinch at the contact. It’s not the first time he’s touched me today, or since the night they killed that innocent woman, but I’m not used to contact that doesn’t come with pain. I don’t know if I ever will be.
“No,” I manage to choke out. “I didn’t get a lot of that.”
Thatcher nods as his hand falls away. I can see the movement out of the corner of my eye, but I stare straight ahead, trying hard to shove my resentment back into its box. To help squash the fiery emotions, I try to conjure up the better times.
“When I was young,” I start slowly, my hands loosening around the steering wheel. “I built a fort in the snow. It had three sides and was as tall as I was, which I don’t think was very tall looking back on it now—but back then? I really thought it was impenetrable.” I smile as I think about how rudimentary it had been. “My mother was working, and she’d given me the day off, so I’d put a lot of time into it.”
“How young is young?” Thatcher interrupts curiously.
I shrug. “I was seven? Maybe eight?”
“And she made you work?”
“It was a family business.” I shrug, trying to not let it bother me that Bright Starr has changed owners. My ancestors are probably rolling over in their graves. “We all had to pull our weight.”
“It still is a family business, Little Sister,” Thatcher reminds me. “Whether it’s in our name or yours, it’s still part of the family.”
Yes, I suppose it is given he’s my stepbrother. Or at least he was when Patrick was alive. I’m not sure if we’re anything in the eyes of the law now, but Thatcher is holding onto this and… I don’t mind. If he wants to be my big brother, my protector, I won’t object. There’s something about Thatcher, as fucked up as he is, that makes me feel safe.
“Anyway, her husband at the time, Rooney, came out of the house swearing up a storm about something. He was probably my favorite of my mother’s husbands,” I chuckle bitterly. Rooney beat me like I was a mangy dog when I messed up, but given that I’ve always been a people pleaser, thankfully, that didn’t happen too often. “I waited until he got close, and then I unleashed over a dozen snowballs at him. He yelped and ran off, slipping and sliding down the stairs while he cursed God for the size of the snowflakes coming down.” I laugh in earnest then, remembering seeing Rooney running away and shaking his fist at the sky. “I felt invincible in that moment…”
My voice trails off as I remember what followed that night when he sobered up and realized it had been me. He’d stomped on my fort, thrown me down, and pelted me with icy snowballs that left bruises and cuts.
“Some of my favorite memories are in the snow,” I conclude softly.
“I like the snow too,” Thatcher admits after a moment of thoughtful silence. “I like the crunch under my feet and the crisp air that comes with it. It’s a bitch trying to be stealthy in it though, so we’ve avoided it for a long time. I hope we get some too.”
I don’t know why, but I smile and my heart swells at his words. When was the last time I connected with anyone? Or found someone who wanted to listen to me talk?
“How many husbands did your mother go through?” Thatcher asks, abruptly changing the subject.
I swallow hard. “A lot.”
“Did they all treat you poorly? Or was it just Patrick and Rooney?”
I stiffen as I make a turn into a residential neighborhood. “Why do you assume Rooney wasn’t good?”
“Little Sister, what you didn’t say spoke louder than your story about the fort,” he informs me.
“What? That doesn’t make sense,” I object.
“It’s pretty easy to deduce that you felt invincible because you got to fight back against someone who hurt you. You got to lash out and were vindicated when he scurried off,” Thatcher sighs. It’s quiet for a moment before he adds, “My mother was quiet about her abuse. Back then, Patrick was much more discreet about what a bastard he was.”
At his father’s name, my anger returns. The way it swiftly blankets me tells me I haven’t quite squashed my initial anger toward him. I suck in a shaky breath to try to tamp it down.
“My mother was a first-generation immigrant whose father sent her over to America from China hoping she would have a good life here. She barely spoke English, didn’t know a single fucking person, and was dependent on her father sending her money while she went to school. Unfortunately, in her sophomore year, she met Patrick at a bar. They knew each other for three months before she got knocked up with us. Her father cut her off, and Patrick married her out of obligation. The moment the judge tied the knot, Patrick began to beat her.”
A shiver rushes through me. Patrick had gotten violent right after his union with Mom too. I could see the dark cloud of violence in his eyes when I first met him. It was that same look all the other husbands had before him. I knew he was bad, but he went out of his way to be so damn good to Mom that she was blinded by love and attention. Something she so desperately sought after back then.
Thatcher reaches forward and cranks up the heat, mistaking my disgust for being cold.
“After we were born, his abuse toward her got worse,” he continues. “He made our mother’s life a living hell, and when we were old enough to take a punch, he came for us too. Never, in the thirteen years we lived together under the same roof, did my mother ever seek out help or say anything to anyone. But the signs were there. Her suffering was practically palpable. A constant silent scream that only Sagan and I could hear. Yours is merely an echo now that your torment is over, but it still lingers. I can hear the painful secrets you hide, Little Sister.”
My chest constricts as I stare straight ahead. I know these streets so well that, even in the rain, I don’t need to pay too much attention. Which is good because I can’t seem to wrap my head around his words. I’ve never been so, so… seen . It’s uncomfortable and maybe more disturbing than killing the babysitter a few nights ago. No one has ever given me, or my life, much thought. Yet here Thatcher is, voicing his insights that aren’t far from the truth.
“What’s absolutely fascinating about you, Little Sister, is how you’ve let it shape you. While other people rot in their suffering, you let it morph into something beautiful. Do you know how much strength that takes—turning a situation like yours into a gift? I’m envious,” Thatcher admits with an incredulous chuckle. “Sagan and I—we were born this way. With all our sharp edges and without the shackles of societal constraints. We never needed a reason to draw blood. But you? Beatrix, Little Sister, you’re a diamond created under pressure. Your silence is both an ode to your pain and the cloak that will keep you safe when you decide to unleash the dangerous woman you hide behind your kind smiles.”
My bottom lip trembles. I catch it between my teeth to keep Thatcher from seeing it. When I’ve wrestled my emotions under control, I let my lip go.
“Thank you,” I whisper.
“For what?” Thatcher’s hand lands on my thigh. I’m hyperaware of the touch. Of everything about my stepbrother. His words and touches have only ever brought me peace or pleasure. Thatcher, for all his murderous tendencies, is a man I yearn to lean further into. “For speaking the truth?”
“For coming into my life.” The embarrassment that comes with confessing my gratitude to a murderous stalker makes my words stilted, but it doesn’t make them any less true.
Thatcher squeezes my thigh. My pussy clenches around nothing in response.
Silence follows as I turn into a driveaway. Through the sheets of rain I can see an ambulance and a squad car sitting out front of the small rancher. Both vehicles have lights flashing, but I’m sure there’s no one inside either. As I cut the engine, the front door opens. Johnny Boothe, the EMT, waves at me.
I reach for the door of the van, but I’m stopped as Thatcher snatches the collar of my jacket and jerks me toward him. His grip is so strong that he pulls me completely out of my seat and across the center console. I gasp while my heart leaps into my throat. Thatcher smiles. It’s that same easy-going, breathtaking smile he wears almost all the time. One that probably has gotten him laid more times than I care to consider, given that it worked on me.
“You’re one of us, and there is nothing we won’t do for you, Beatrix. The least I can do is acknowledge how incredible you are,” he says casually, his dual-colored eyes sliding over my face. His smile sweetens, softening around the edges, giving him such a compelling look of compassion that it’s hard not to believe him.
He surprises me by closing the short distance and crushing his mouth against mine. His kiss is hard and demanding, confident and all consuming. All the things I’ve never been or experienced myself. The tension spills out of me. Before I know it, I’m leaning into Thatcher’s kiss. He hums in approval before biting my bottom lip. As my lips part on a gasp, he takes my bottom lip and sucks on it. A hard shiver of desire ripples through me.
Thatcher suddenly breaks the kiss, letting go of my jacket as he does.
“Remember, until the paperwork comes in, you’re still the owner of Bright Starr. I’m just your stepbrother looking to help you run it while we’re in town figuring things out, ok?” he says, reaching down to zip up his jacket.
I nod as I try to gain my bearings.
“I’ll grab the cart from the back.” With that, Thatcher opens his door and slips out into the rain.