The Sinners of Saint Amos - Logan Fox Page 0,256

the hairs on my arms stand to attention.

It riles me that there was a time when I wasn’t included. Back when I was still healing from the slugs Keith put in me, when I was on the kind of bed rest that excluded everything except actual fucking sleeping.

There’s an unspoken rule in this family. If one of us wants Trinity, we all have her. I think it’s because we’re all afraid it would feel like being back in that basement. Not knowing where to look when someone you cared for was being fucked. I know it’s different, but that doesn’t always matter in fractured minds like ours.

Trinity digs nails into my unprotected neck as I fuck her against the side of the cabin. Her gasps and moans aren’t loud enough to block out the screams, though, and that just intensifies my thrusts.

I’m not a sadist. I don’t experience anything pleasant when I know someone is being hurt—physically or emotionally. Instead, it settles me. It calms the silent storm that’s always been raging inside me, the one that gets out when I’m triggered and my brothers aren’t around to talk me down.

It’s what happened a few months ago while we were hunting down this last runt of a man. I investigated a lead on my own. Anathema, I know, but I’d had a falling out with Zach again, and this time Trinity had taken his side. I had to clear my head, and my route happened to take me past a church where we believed Adam might have been scouting for boys.

It was late on a Tuesday night. The place was deserted. I broke in to take a look at their files, thinking it the perfect time for such misdeeds.

I wasn’t the only one.

My misdeeds didn’t hold a candle to what I walked into.

Adam’s friend, one of the men in the congregation, had a little girl with him. At least…she had been. When I arrived, the Lord had already seen fit to take her to heaven.

Adam’s friend didn’t survive much longer. I took to him with bare fists, knowing my first blow had cracked his skull and done enough damage that he’d probably be eating through a straw for the rest of his life while nursing staff changes his diapers…but I couldn’t stop.

That’s what my brothers are for.

They’re the only ones who can make me stop.

If Apollo hadn’t realized I’d taken off, hadn’t tracked the SUV to the church and figured out the rest, I’d be in prison right now. Or possibly a psychiatric ward.

Adam’s friend was unrecognizable. Not just as a man, but as a human being. Which is fine, because he never was one. Apollo and Cass got me away from there while Trinity and Zach cleaned up the scene. They buried the little girl under a cherry tree in the church’s yard, and scraped what was left of Adam’s friend into a tarp and went to go dump him in the desert. Days later, Apollo sent an encrypted message to the family of the little girl telling them what had happened and making it seem as if it came from Adam’s friend.

It gave them closure, and hopefully it kept the cops off our trail.

Since then, I haven’t gone anywhere alone.

Since then, I’ve had to take sleeping pills to stop the nightmares from coming back.

There’s a sudden manic outburst of laughter from inside the cabin. I’m not sure if it’s a coincidence, but that’s when I empty myself into Trinity. She sighs, her body going limp, although I know she hasn’t come.

The cabin’s door creaks open, and Zachary steps outside. His shoes crunch on the slushy ground as he takes one step toward us before stopping. It’s dark out here—I’m sure he can’t see more than a silhouette.

But he stares at us as if he can.

“It’s time,” is all he says.

Adam truly looks like a Ghost. His skin is gray, his lips ashen. Sweat-wet hair hangs in ribbons down his forehead, some slicked against his blood-stained skin. That’s the only part of him that has any color.

The blood.

He’s naked now, putting his podgy, glistening stomach on display. A flaccid dick that barely peeks out between his skinny legs.

It’s so much warmer inside than out. Sweat prickles between my shoulder blades as my body struggles to adjust to the heat.

Cass spins the hunting knife on his bloody palm and then closes his fingers tight around the handle. There’s a hush in the air, as if everyone’s holding their breath—even Adam.

Silently,