Page 17 of The Ecstasy of Sin

I ignore him, but he’s watching me warily like I might lash out and tear out his throat while he’s standing so close to me.

It’s a tempting idea. I briefly fantasize about the way his blood would fill my mouth, and spill across my face, hot and thick.

Heat settles at the base of my spine, and I shift my one-eyed gaze to his.

He's remembered he’s a doctor and I’m technically a patient, and snapped out of the fear spiral that pulled him under. He steps away and walks over to his desk, drawing up the local anesthetic he needs to continue patching me up.

I take the opportunity to respond to the messages.

ME

Just take him and walk out. They'll follow.

Don't leave Torin alone tonight. Wait until I'm back.

His response is immediate.

GHOST

You're stuck with us, brother. We're crashing on this comfy fuckingcouch tonight.

I smile at that, because I can see it now. A scene that happens at least twice a week, where I walk in and find the three of them sleeping in a pile just like we used to do when we were kids.

Grown fucking men. Men who kill for money, men who fight for sport—snuggling like a pack of mean little puppies with sharp teeth.

I chuckle at the mental image and tuck my phone back into my pocket just as Dr. Denton returns, syringe in hand. He holds it up in front of me, politely asking for consent. I nod, and it’s enough to set him back to task.

After a few minutes, he taps my brow and asks me if I can feel it. I shake my head, and he gets to work stitching my face.

I let my mind drift again, replaying the argument I know is still happening in my kitchen over who gets to take my German Shepherd for a walk.

Hunter’s been mine for five years now, and other than my foster brothers, he’s my best friend. He’s smart as hell, loyal, and the best running partner I’ve ever had.

I bought him as a puppy from a breeder that specializes in producing working dogs, back when I got interested in protection sports after seeing some competition videos online.

I spent three years training him, bonding with him, and watching him turn into the best fucking dog in the world. Calm, steady, and goofy enough to make my brothers laugh even on their darkest days.

He guards my house, and doubles as a furry therapist for all four of us.

Best investment I’ve ever made.

And my brothers love him just as much as I do. It didn’t matter how much we were neglected and abused; that never stopped us from building this family from the ground up. A family each one of us would die for. Hunter included.

Ryker once threatened to break down my front door just to take Hunter for a walk, because apparently three hours alone is “inhumane” for my well-loved dog.

Giving them all keys to my place made sense. We use my enormous in-home gym and sparring ring like it’s our own personal sanctuary.

Sometimes I come home and find one or three of them working out in the basement. More often than not, I find all three of them on my oversized sectional, binge-watching horror movies like they have nothing better to do with their time than be together.

We love each other, and we learned from an early age that being together means safety. Plus, Hunter loves having them around for company.

“All done,” Dr. Denton announces, snapping me back to the here and now. He wipes away the mess of blood with steady hands, then presses a butterfly bandage across the fresh stitches.

“I’ll grab you a week’s worth of antibiotics,” he adds, voice just a touch too casual. “In case it gets infected while you’re out doing… whatever it is you do.”

Brave motherfucker, talking to me like that.

For a moment, I imagine grabbing the scissors from the suture tray and plunging them into his jugular. If I wanted to killhim, there is nothing he could do to stop me. I’d wear his blood like a second skin—warm and arterial, painting me red.