Page 12 of Buried Beneath Sin

The door behind me opens again.

“Your brother took off to stare at a sleeping woman again,” I grumble as I stomp around the grill to go get my tongs.

There’s a heavy sigh before the second Hunt says, “Yeah, I know.”

“You could go get him, remind him that this only ends one way: with us in that fucking house and her rotting in the ground or floating around as ashes above our heads.” I kind of like the thought of the latter, knowing Sagan’s muse is just out of his reach. But the thought of her being full of maggots pleases me too. I bend down and snatch the tongs off the cracked cement lot and return to the grill.

There, standing beside it, is Sagan’s twin brother, Thatcher. With his hair wet from a shower and wearing a thin white cotton t-shirt, gray sweatpants that hang real low, and bare feet, he certainly doesn’t look like he’s going anywhere. Still, he looks good. Real fucking good.

At first glance, you would think the Hunt twins were identical. With a Chinese mother and a white father, they’re a delicious blend of both races. They have their mother’s raven black hair, fair flawless skin, and they’ve even inherited her brown eyes… sort of. At least one of their eyes is brown. Their other eye is green, probably from their father though they’ve never really discussed what Patrick looks like. Both Thatcher and Sagan are tall as fuck, have wide shoulders, and a light splatter of freckles across their upper cheekbones. I assume those are traits that came from their father as well.

The only immediate difference between the two is that Thatcher gels his hair back out of his face while Sagan lets his hang. But upon closer inspection, you begin to notice the differences. For one, Thatcher’s taller by about two inches while Sagan’s shoulders are wider. Sagan had his nose broken, and despite Thatcher having set it, you can tell it’s still slightly bent. And while both have cocks most would flinch away from in fear,Sagan’s is girthy while Thatcher has about a half an inch on him in length. Those are just the outward differences. But inwardly? They couldn’t be more opposite.

“When we put it to a vote to pursue this idea, Sagan understood that, in order for this to work, everyone under that roof had to go. Once the new will includes us as the heirs who will inherit everything, we’ll strike them all down. Just because Sagan changed his vote, doesn’t mean the situation has changed.”

The reminder that the majority rule still applies in this situation makes me feel a little better. In our little triad, decisions are based on votes. A majority ruling is how things are decided. Thatcher is still pro-kill-them-all which, with my vote, means the Starr girl’s fate is as good as sealed.

I sigh. “Let me kill her?”

“She’s yours,” Thatcher promises quickly. I glance over at him, surprised by the bitterness in his voice. He glares at the empty parking spot where Sagan’s bike was. “I’m tired of him disappearing all the time too, Knox. But we need to be patient while we get everything set up. We can let Sagan play with his toy before we have to break her.”

With a contented hum, I tuck a strand of my wavy blond hair behind my ear.

“Good.” I give him a satisfied nod. “In the meantime, I need to find a place that will touch up my highlights. I don’t like my roots showing.”

Thatcher chuckles, his annoyance with his brother vanishing. He steps closer to me and reaches up to run his fingers through my hair, studying it thoughtfully as he does. I hum, pleased with this safe touch. Thatcher repeats the motion, this time allowing his nails to scrape gently along my scalp. My cock twitches, and as I groan, Thatcher swoops down to plant a hard kiss againstmy lips. I lean into it, loving his attention. When Thatcher pulls away, I’m no longer so annoyed.

“I’ll find you a nice salon in the city,” Thatcher offers, his mouth curling into a seductive smile. “How about I make sure you get a massage, a mimosa, and afterward, we can get brunch at a?—”

“Sold,” I flash him a grin, loving that he knows how to pamper me so well. “Now, get ready. Dinner is almost done.”

8

THATCHER

THREE WEEKS LATER

“This better be worth the risk,” I mutter as my brother and I prowl up the sloped backyard toward the giant house. I’d forgotten how cold the midwest can get. It’s mid-January, one of the coldest months of the year. I’ll have to get a better jacket and gloves if I’m going to be able to handle this type of chill.

He says nothing to this. He doesn’t have to. For Sagan to takeanytype of risk he always weighs the pros and cons. To drag me along this evening is proof that there is definitely something worth me seeing inside the house.

“I’m not changing my mind,” I warn as we approach the back door.

“We’ll see about that.”

I doubt it. Killing our father and his new family has been the end goal for the past few months now—ever since we decided it was time to lay down some roots. Our plan is solid. We just recently conned our dear old dad into signing the new will.Thatwas all Knox. Sauntering into this house, pretending to be his lawyer’s assistant needing an updated signature on a will hewrote. Usually brains and beauty don’t go hand in hand, but for Knox it does. In fact, he’s terribly clever. I’m so glad we didn’t end up killing him.

Sagan reaches for the knob and twists. The door swings open on silent hinges. He was right, they always keep it unlocked.

It’s not that I doubted Sagan, I just know things can change at any minute. Watching, waiting… He’s good at it. The detailed information he can collect in just twenty-four hours is something the FBI could learn a thing or two from. But Sagan has had nearly three months to prowl around this house, watching its inhabitants and learning their behaviors. He knows them well.

As we slip into the dark mudroom, I reach back and gently pull the door shut behind us. The light that slips through the crack of the partially opened door that leads into the rest of the house allows me to see the blood that still stains my jeans. With a grimace, I make a mental note to discard them on our way home.

I thought I’d changed out of everything that had gotten blood on it. Clearly, in my haste, I missed this. No matter, I’ll take care of it in a bit. Besides, having a reminder of what I did is nice. Tonight was a bloody masterpiece. Bunkering down so close to Chicago was one of my more brilliant ideas. With or without killing Patrick, I’m sure we would’ve ended up in an area like this eventually to settle down. With so many nobodies in the city, we have an endless supply of victims at our disposal.

Somewhere in the house, glass shatters. A feminine scream of rage follows right behind it. Sagan and I listen to the shouting that follows. From here I can’t hear what’s being said, but I’d know the baritone bark that follows anywhere. A slow moving, molten rage boils up in the middle of my chest. It slinks through my veins and stiffens my spine. It’s been a long time since I heard my father’s voice.

There’s a heavy thump and something else breaks.

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