Page 9 of Entombed In Sin

I snort. “Sorry, I’ll work on that.”

Thatcher chuckles at the bald-faced lie. I hold Beatrix’s stare as I direct my next words to her. “How do you feel this morning?”

She keeps her expression guarded as she whispers, “I’m fine.”

With a heavy sigh, Thatcher’s leg releases Beatrix. He sits up slowly before letting go of her neck and running his fingers through his tousled hair.

“You lie terribly, Little Sister,” he says coolly. “We’ll let this slide this one time. Just know, when we ask you how you’re feeling, we expect the truth. We want to know how you feel even if we don’t ask you directly. Scared? Angry? Happy? Horny?Tell us. Do you understand, Beatrix?”

Little does my pet know, this is the closest to a clue that she will ever get when it comes to our rules. If she actually takes the time to listen, she might avoid another punishment. Judging by the way she turns her head into the shared pillow to hide the distrust and annoyance that flickers across her face, she’s not catching on.

A smile pulls at my lips. Her defiance is charming. Whether she learns through another punishment or not, my Little Viperwillbend to our rules.

I slide off the edge of the dresser and amble over to her. Beatrix hears my footsteps and sits up swiftly, watching me closely. She brings the sheet with her, as if that can protect her from me. I grab her chin and force her to look up at me.

“Mistakes happened yesterday. They’ll be righted, Little Viper. Until then, behave.”

A flash of the murderer beneath her demure demeanor comes and goes, keeping me hard and breathing heavy as I stand. Thatcher glances at me over her head, his mouth pressing into a tight line, his curiosity flickers in my chest through our bond.

We’ll have to talk later.

As I turn and leave the room, I make a mental note to check Beatrix’s spot in the conservatory to make sure she doesn’t have an extra stash of poison at her disposal.

5

BEATRIX

The smell of roses washes over me in subtle waves. There are a dozen black ones at my side in a pretty vase. I don’t know when Sagan had time between yesterday and this morning to pick these up or even where he got them, but they are lovely. Or at least I think they are. I’ve barely spared them a single glance since I arrived and sat down beside them.

Perched on the edge of my desk in the preparation room, I stare at the six square doors that make up the refrigeration system. Four out of the six stations are full. I’ll have to tend to each body eventually.

I catch my reflection rock back and forth in the stainless steel. It’s annoying to watch but I can’t seem to look away. My chest clenches tight, and for the hundredth time since I got up this morning, I feel like I can’t breathe, and the walls are closing in around me. Panic wells up and my rocking increases. My grip on the edge of the desk tightens. A hard tremor runs through me and tears well up.

Stop it, you’re alive! I squeeze my eyes shut.You’re alive and you’re ok.

But for how long? Until the next punishment or game these guys want to play? A moan slips past my lips. The sound cutsoff as the pressure in my chest increases. I thought things were going well with Knox. That I finally had a friend. Of course, I had to go and screw that up and almost end up dead, all because I couldn’t mind my own business. Well lesson learned. Don’t get close to these guys, and keep my head down. Just like how I was living my life before they got here. I jerk my head away from my distorted reflection in the metal and look at the person laying still on the table before me.

Trevor's decomposing body helps to dispel some of the panic.

I've never had any desire to see Trevor Michaels naked. However, I have to admit gray, decaying, and bloated is a good look for him. His insides match his outsides now. There's no golden prodigy to be seen here. I take a small comfort in that.

Around his bent neck is a thick, circular bruise. Using the notes taken by the police left in the body bag with Trevor and my knowledge of how bruises work, it appears the twins had thrown Trevor over the old Hogton Bridge, and let gravity break his neck. Trevor's car was discovered parked along the side of the rusted bridge with the door open and a note on the dash. I wonder what the twins wrote to make it look convincing.

My mouth twitches as a smile comes and goes. As pleased as I am to see the end of Trevor Michaels, I know his death will bring heartache to one of the few people I consider a friend.

“Pastor Michaels wanted to speak to you yesterday about the arrangements for his son. He mentioned a cremation but he didn't go into any service details. He was pretty insistent that it be you to handle everything for this situation,” Thatcher had said as I started out the front door this morning. “I promised him that you would reach out when you could.”

I should call my friend now, but it's still early. Would he even be up? My heart sinks as I dread that conversation. I know how suicide is perceived by his faith and how broken he'll be about all of this. Part of me wishes I could assure him his son hadn't takenhis own life—if only to give him that peace of mind. Though I doubt letting him know Trevor was murdered instead would give him the peace I want him to have.

“I hope you're having fun rotting in hell,” I mutter to Trevor as I scoot off the edge of the desk and move around his table.

I’m halfway around when my feet come to an abrupt stop. My gaze lingers on Trevor’s face—something I’ve avoided looking too hard at. I’ve seen it enough while he was alive. Enough to notice that something is off about it now. Frowning, I come around the table to stand beside his head. I stare into his semi-open eyelids, wondering if his eyeballs have sunken into his face.

Quickly, I move around the room to grab disposable gloves. I yank them on and head back over to the body. Reaching over, I open an eyelid. Huh. Trevor is missing his eyes.

I let the lid drop. Where the hell… I start to shake my head as I remember he’s been out in the elements for over a week. Birds could have plucked the eyeballs out. That’s not unheard of. Yet when I study Trevor’s face, there aren’t any signs of scratching from talons or marks from the beak of a bird.

My mind goes to the night Knox flipped out on me, bringing a knife to my throat in a warning to never touch him again. Hadn’t Sagan walked in just moments before with a pair of eyes in a box? What are the odds that those eyes belong to… No, I dismiss the thought before it can solidify. No one in Chasm would find a body, pluck the eyes out of it, and dump them at my doorstep.Thoseeyes had been from an animal.

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