Page 112 of Entombed In Sin

Because there is nothing truly angelic about Knox Keele.

He leans up on his tiptoes and tilts his head upward. His wordless demand is met as I lean down and kiss him fully. A hum rattles through my chest. I like the taste of red wine on his lips. It suits him. He opens his mouth and I allow my tongue to snake in and taste him.

A hand suddenly cups my hardening dick, and I grunt, surprised.

When I pull away from Knox’s mouth, I raise a brow and ask him, “Hungry for something other than food?”

“I’m always hungry for sex, Sagan. You should know that by now.” He rolls his eyes. “You can feed me your fat cock later. For now, go get your brother and Beatrix.”

“Watch your tone, Pretty Boy,” I warn darkly. “I might have you choke on this cock now if you don’t behave.”

Knox snickers before stepping away, out of reach, as he goes back to work. “You know I don’t have a gag reflex. There will be no choking. Just happy acceptance.”

Great, now my dick is painfully hard. I stifle a groan, knowing that later that I’ll assuage the fire he’s stoked in my veins. I move toward the threshold of the kitchen.

There’s no need to go further than that. I was wrong about her being in the conservatory. Standing there in the doorway, I watch as my pet descends the flight of stairs with my brother. She’s wearing one of his t-shirts and a new pair of sweatpants. Given the damage along her lower abdomen, she’ll be wearing sweats for a while so nothing irritates her stitches or stalls her recovery. Her mass of curly hair is down this evening, still slightly damp from her shower and flung over one shoulder.

Thatcher’s hand rests on her lower back, there to steady her in case she needs it. One glance at her face though, and I know, despite her injuries, she won’t lean on him. The hard press of her mouth, the stiffness in her shoulders, and the way her chin tilts upward ever so slightly are all signs of a fighter.

Pride fills my hollow chest with warmth and forces it to expand.

When they make it to the bottom of the steps and head toward me, I meet them halfway. I come up to my pet’s other side and fling my arm around her shoulders. Together, the three of us head into the kitchen.

“Found them,” I deadpan to Knox.

“It smells delicious in here, Knox,” Beatrix greets, shooting him a small, sweet smile.

“Of course it does.Imade dinner. If it didn’t, you’d know it was Sagan trying to cook,” he says flippantly.

As if he doesn’t love being complimented.

Ronald doesn’t look back up as Thatcher and I walk my Little Viper over to the table. She doesn’t acknowledge him either as she takes her seat and places the cloth napkin on her lap. When it’s neatly spread over her thighs, she looks up at me and my brother.

“Thank you.”

Thatcher bends and kisses her temple. “No need to thank us, Little Sister. You know we’ll do anything for you. We’re family.”

“Sagan, come get the wine,” Knox orders. “Thatcher, carry these platters over, will you?”

Ronald looks up at Beatrix as my brother and I move away. I pause for just a second, taking in the way my pet doesn’t flinch, stiffen, or cower as she meets his cloudy gaze. I smile before I do as Knox has requested. As the three of us move around the kitchen, there’s a weak laugh from our guest at the table.

“Family,” he spits out, disgust twisting his alright pinched expression. “This isn't a family. You’re all just lunatics.”

My Little Viper hums noncommittally. “And you think what you have with Shannon is? Oh, wait… That’s right, Shannon’s no longer with us, is she? I guess we can’t compare our family to one that doesn’t exist—that would be terribly rude.”

From the other side of the kitchen, Knox throws his head back and laughs.

Ronald snarls. The sound is full of pain, rage, and the weak rattle of his poorly functioning lungs. If we don’t kill him, the blood loss and infection ravaging his body certainly will, and soon.

“D-don’t speak about my ShayShay,” Ronald demands.

“My sister can do whatever she wants,” Thatcher corrects, his voice pleasant while his gaze hardens as he peers at our dinner guest over his shoulder. A sharp flash of something like malice hits me in the middle of my chest—it’s just a taste of the wrath Thatcher is feeling. It mirrors my own. “If she wants to sit there and reminisce about how she killed your wife, she can, and you’ll listen.”

As Ronald sputters his outrage weakly, the three of us standing begin bringing food over to the table. Knox has gone all out with dinner tonight. With six different sides, three different wines to choose from, and a roast big enough to feed an army, I know we’re in for a treat. Knox wouldn’t have done all this if there wasn’t something up his sleeve. As I lower myself in the seat beside Beatrix, I make it a point to scoot closer to her. I hate the way Ronald’s glowering at her, even as watery and unfocused as it is. The fact that he can feel anything other than pain infuriates me.

I throw my arm over the backrest of Beatrix’s chair and stare back. One of her hands slips under the table and lands on my thigh. She might as well have burned me. The heat from her touch, followed by the intense focus of adoration in her eyes when she looks up at me makes me feel a hundred feet tall and gets me hard as fuck.

Stitches or not, there’s no way I’m not claiming her sweet pussy tonight.

---