Page 53 of Love You To Pieces

I’ve never felt this good after sex before.

Though in my defense, I’ve never been fucked by two homicidal, cannibalistic brothers at the same time before.

Deacon leans over me and kisses my temple, though it’s a playfully chaste kiss, not like Fox’s. “If you cut him again, little prey…” he murmurs in my ear. “You won’t like how I make you apologize nearly as much as this.” With that, he gets up then leaves the room, and the sound of the bathroom sink comes on a minute later.

It takes almost two minutes, if I’m counting the seconds right in my head, before I can move at all. My breathing comes in sharp pants, and I focus on Fox carding his fingers through my hair, humming that song that’s going to be stuck in my head for eternity. When I sit up to look at him, he smiles sweetly and glances toward the door. “You can run, if it’ll make you feel better,” he tells me. “It’s not like you can really go anywhere, anyway. Don’t touch the knife, though,” he adds, his gaze flicking to where it sits on the nightstand. “We’re not playing this particular game again.”

I barely hear the last part. I’m up and on my feet, fumbling for my clothes that I jerk on without much trouble, and am out the door long before Deacon comes back. Though from where I’m pressed against the wall at the other end of the hallway, I can hear the two of them continuing where we left off.

They aren’t exactly quiet, after all.

But the longer I stand there, the harder it is to say I didn’t want it, or to convince myself that part of me still doesn’t want to go back into that room and see what else they’re doing.

That’s normal, though, I try to tell myself. It’s Stockholm syndrome or trauma bonding or, fuck, just poor mental health on my part. I don’t want them. Not really.

The moment I get away, I won’t feel this pull to the two of them anymore.

Moonlight glints off something in the room next to me, and I look sideways to the half-open door of the bedroom I explored a few nights ago. It’s still shrouded and dust particles are swimming in the air, but something draws me into it, across the floor, to the old wooden desk sitting right in front of the window. A notebook and a very functional pen are on top of it, but that’s not what I’m looking at.

That’s not what the moonlight is shining on.

My fingers move, and slowly I pick up the old key that’s covered in dust, with a piece of duct tape slapped across the widest part of it.

Back Gate.

Back.

Fucking.

Gate.

“Holy fuck,” I whisper, holding up the key in the moonlight. This is it.

Finally, I can get out of here. All I have to do is figure out when to do it.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

They don’t know.

That’s the only thing I can think as the two men go about their day.

Deacon leaves first, grumpy and sleepy-eyed, for his shift at the Wolf Lake hospital that’s really more of an urgent care than anything fancy, according to him. He bitches and complains all through breakfast, shoveling eggs and bacon down his throat while Fox takes turns making sure both of us eat and giving Deacon the sympathy he so clearly wants before leaving.

He kisses Fox. Long and sweet and sleepy, then comes over to me. I hesitate. He doesn’t. Deacon grabs my hair and pulls my head back for a kiss, my mouth drops open in a gasp that allows his tongue to lap at mine before he pulls away.

“See you both later,” he sighs out at last, already looking irritated and done with his day. “Or maybe I won’t. Maybe I’ll expire out there.” His sarcasm never seems to fade, no matter if he’s in a good mood or bad.

Fox only snickers as Deacon stomps out the front door, and when he cleans up the plates while waving away my help today, I tense and think he’s caught me. That this is the moment.

But he doesn’t know.

The key labeled back gate is burning a hole in my bra where it’s hidden, but Fox never even looks at me funny. He just walks into the kitchen, leaving me to my own devices.

I can’t go now. This might be my way out, but I’m not stupid enough to just run out the door and charge at the gate while he’s in the house. Biting my lip, I sit at the dining table in my new-borrowed clothes for a few minutes, my fingers drumming on the wood while Fox hums the song he always seems to be listening to in his head.

Always is always, forever.

As long as one is one.