Page 82 of Buried Beneath Sin

“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 ofviolence 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 anode 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.

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