Door of Bruises (Thornchapel Book 4)

by Sierra Simone

  “You make it sound so easy,” I complain as we approach the front door. Augie’s crew is gone for the day, the tarp-covered piles of supplies and splatters of paint on the gravel the only trace that they were here earlier. “It’s not that easy.”

  “Easy is a misleading word,” Becket says. “And in your case, I think the wrong one.”

  “So what’s the right one then?” I ask Becket as we round the corner from the hall and walk into the freshly renovated dining room to see Poe and Auden already seated at the table.

  Auden looks at me, hunger all over his mouth and blazing from his hazel eyes, and then he says, “Sit next to me, St. Sebastian. I’ve missed you.”

  I go. I go like I’m compelled, and I hear Becket answer behind me as I do:

  “Inevitable.”

  Delphine is keynoting some influencer conference in Edinburgh, and Rebecca’s been called away for an emergency meeting with the Severn Riverfront people, so it’s only Auden, Poe, Becket, and me for dinner. Abby’s made a sumptuous feast of local venison served with caramelized white asparagus, mushrooms, and hazelnuts, and then for dessert, we have an apple soufflé with a butterscotch sauce. We mostly talk about what we’ve found while digging through the library for information on the door, but the conversation wanders to Becket’s ongoing house hunt after we help Abby clear away the plates.

  “You know you can stay here as long as you need,” Auden says as we prepare to decamp to the library. “I have more than enough room.”

  “Or you could stay with me,” I offer. “At least for a bit.” I’ve been sleeping in my house in the village since I came back, too chickenshit to sleep here at Thornchapel. I’ve been using the preparations for selling the house as an excuse, but we all know the truth.

  I can’t trust myself to sleep here.

  I can’t trust myself not to crawl to Auden’s door and beg for him to let me in.

  “I appreciate the offers,” Becket says, “and I love staying here obviously. But I should find a place of my own too. I can’t tax your hospitality that much.”

  “Why not?” Poe asks. “The rest of us do.”

  “I genuinely don’t mind,” Auden says seriously. “The new wing has six suites. The old wing will have three more. There is room to spare.”

  Becket’s gaze slides over to Poe briefly as he folds his napkin and sets it on the table. The longing there is naked, palpable—even as he shutters it as quickly as he can—and suddenly I understand. Becket can’t live here any more than I can live here.

  Because Thornchapel is home to someone he loves. Who is also someone he can never have.

  “I’ll eventually need my own place anyway,” Becket says, trying to force cheer into his tone. “I may as well look sooner rather than later.”

  Auden says nothing, but a line appears between his brows.

  “Have you given any more thought to what you will do?” Poe asks him. She doesn’t ask about money or how he will afford to buy property, because he’s being robustly supported by his parents—which, to his credit, is something he’s been very candid about.

  It makes me very, very aware that I’m scraping every last pence from my bank account to pay for the shitty flat in Bristol. It makes me very aware that every class I will take isn’t truly paid for yet, not by me, and that there’s now a student loan account with my name on it.

  So much for Ralph’s high-minded children of the manor talk. He didn’t leave me anything when he died—not money, not family jewelry, not even an old car. Meanwhile Freddie has already offered me—in that coded but somehow still awkward way of wealthy people who like to pretend money doesn’t exist—help with housing and schooling.

  I refused. Because I’m a stubborn arsehole and I’d rather eat Pot Noodle on a used mattress than take charity from a stranger, even if he did furnish me with half my DNA.

  “I’m not sure what I’ll do next,” Becket is saying to Poe. “I’ve considered teaching at the university level—although for that, I’ll need more than an MDiv, so I’ll need to go back to school myself first. I suppose that’s the most likely course of action.”

  He doesn’t sound enthused as he talks about it, but he doesn’t sound unhappy either. He doesn’t sound anything really, nothing more than polite. Small-talky. Like he’s talking about an acquaintance’s nephew and not about what he’s going to do after he left the Church in a cloud of exhibitionist-sex-related disgrace.

  “You’d be a good teacher,” Poe says warmly as we all get up.

  She’s wearing a tight, long-sleeved top with a deeply scooped neck and a short plaid skirt which hits mid-thigh, and when she smooths it down over her legs, I can practically hear the shared mental groan between Auden, Becket, and me. She is all curves tonight, with that low neckline and short skirt, and my cock gives a lazy stir behind my zipper. I fucked her in the library earlier when it was just the two of us, her hand twisted in my hair and me stabbing into her as hard as I could, but I’m ready for more again, I’m ready for more right the hell now. Especially knowing that there’s nothing underneath that little skirt of hers but soft skin and pink places.

  Auden and Becket are clearly aware of the same thing, because Becket clears his throat and says he’s going ahead to stoke the fire in the library, and Auden extends a hand toward Poe, who nestles obediently into his side. He murmurs something in her ear while his hand roams under her hem and kneads what he finds, and she nods at what he’s saying and then murmurs something back, which has him laughing a little. They have this quiet meeting even as she’s spreading her feet apart so he can inspect her bottom and cunt more easily.

  I can tell the moment his fingers push inside her, because she gives a happy sigh and her eyes flutter to mine, as if to say why are you so far away? Why are you over there and not over here? And when Auden looks at me, his eyes say much the same thing.

  Except they also say my fingers could be inside you too. All you have to do is come to me.

  I shiver and quickly excuse myself to join Becket before I do something stupid. Like go over there and slide my own fingers inside Poe.

  Like drop to my knees and crawl to them both.

  I’ve been avoiding being alone with Auden for just this reason, and he hasn’t pushed me, he hasn’t chased me, but he’s watched me. God, how he’s watched me. And the look in his eyes isn’t resigned or forbearing, it’s not patient and watchful. His stare is avid, raw.

  Maybe even . . . mischievous?

  Yes, that’s what it is. Mischief. Devilishness. His eyes glint with the same spark they had when he tackled me in the lavender and bit my lip hard enough to make it bleed. When he straddled me in a graveyard and Sharpie-d an entire mural over my chest and back.

  Playful. Arrogant. Bossy.

  It makes me think oh God what is he up to, and it makes me want to weep with a gratitude I don’t understand, and it should terrify me too, because I’ve never stood a chance against Auden like this. I can face his anger, I can face his indifference and even his tears—but his wickedness? His haughty, naughty misbehavior?

  It took me no time at all to crumple before it when I was sixteen, and it will take even less time now, because now I know. Now I know the tender, hungry king behind it all, and there’s no resisting that king, there’s no fighting him.

  There’s only hiding and hoping that you can outrun your own thoughts. That you can become invisible to your own heart.

  “Are Poe and Auden still coming?” Becket asks from beside the fire. He’s coaxing it into a merry little blaze, one hand curled around the poker and a tulip glass of fizzing prosecco dangling from the other. With the chunky cardigan and perfectly fitted wool trousers, he looks like he’s just stepped off the pages of a magazine shoot about English country houses. For a long moment, I’m totally captivated by the strong throat above the collar of his shirt and the muscles of his thighs straining against his trousers. The taut curve of his arse.

  Fuck, I’m messed up today. I’m so horny that I’m lee
ring at Becket while he’s doing nothing but stirring the fire.

  “Yeah, they’re coming,” I say. I throw myself onto a sofa and scrub at my hair, trying to get my simmering blood under control. “They were right behind me.”

  I hear whispers and giggles in the hallway, and then they’re strolling in, Poe’s cheeks stained with lust or excitement or both. Auden gives me a smile that could be called flippant except for how smug it is, and then sits on the velvet-upholstered sofa across from mine, propping his ankle up on his knee and leaning back with his arm along the edge. The picture of indolence, with that rumpled hair and those glittering eyes.

  “That should do for now,” Becket says, straightening up and putting the poker away before he sits next to me on the sofa. “It was downright chilly today, I hope that isn’t it for the warm weather this year. Oh Saint, I forgot to ask you if you wanted something to drink?”

  “Poe will get it,” says Auden, and Poe nibbles on her lower lip to stop a smug smile of her own.

  “I’ll get it,” she repeats in a purr, walking past the table to the sideboard, her bottom swaying hypnotically under her skirt as she goes. We watch as she pours the drinks—scotch for Auden and me, something clear and lime-wedged for her—and then she walks back over. She’s barefoot now, and as she walks toward us and the fire, I can see she’s no longer wearing a bra. Her nipples are dark shadows under her top, and her breasts move as she steps, and oh my God, Auden is responsible for this, I know he is.

  My suspicions are confirmed after she sets her drink on the mantel. She hands me the scotch and then rather than walk around the table to hand Auden his, she leans over it instead. Her skirt lifts as she does, pulling up over her bottom, showing Becket and me the plush heart-shape of her backside. And then the soft cleft between her legs, revealing the tiniest, narrowest hint of glistening pink.

  Becket lets out a ragged breath, leaning forward and shoving his head into his hands, like he can’t bear to look.

  “It’s rude,” Auden says coolly, “to show off something you don’t plan on sharing. Especially with guests. Where are your manners, Proserpina?”

  She looks over her shoulder, giving us a faux-contrite look. “I’m so very sorry,” she says, not sounding sorry at all. “How unforgivable of me.”

  “Over my lap,” Auden says, patting his knee. “Come on.”

  She practically skips there, and she’s summarily arranged over his thighs with her skirt flipped up and her backside ready for punishment—which Auden delivers with swift, unforgiving measure. Each slap against her skin has her whimpering and begging, and each lift of his hand has me shifting on the sofa. I can see the muscles tensing in his shoulder and his arm, I can see the flex of his hand before he strikes, I can see how his other hand holds Poe securely over him.

  I can see the thumb rubbing soothing circles over her hip even as he punishes her, as if to say thank you.

  Thank you for hurting for me.

  Fuck.

  I wish it were me I wish it were me I wish it were me—

  Becket is in abject misery now, watching through his fingers, breathing like he’s running a half-marathon uphill. Auden gives Poe a final swat and then looks over at us, one hand smoothing idly over her reddened skin as he does.

  “You have to forgive my girlfriend’s bad manners,” he says calmly. “But she’s going to make it up to you, isn’t she?”

  “Yes,” Poe murmurs, her voice sweet and tipsy-sounding, like she’s taken several shots of vodka instead of several swats to the arse. “I am.”

  “Good girl. Since you liked bending over like a slut so much, how about we do that now? How about you crawl onto that table on your hands and knees, and apologize to our guests?”

  “Yes, Sir,” Poe says dreamily, and Auden lifts her easily onto her feet, nudging her toward the coffee table. Our eyes meet before she crawls onto it, and I see nothing but happy, horny joy reflected there, like she’s in heaven right now, like this is her land of milk and honey. A dark library with an arrogant Dom and plenty of watching eyes.

  I’m a swirl of needing to fuck her like this and also needing to be fucked like this. If only it were my skin burning with his marks, my pride he was roguishly stomping on . . .

  Poe is in front of us now, facing Auden on all fours. Already we can see her spank-flushed bottom and the shadow of her pussy, but then she lowers her head to the table, resting her head on her arms, and her cunt is on full display. Pink and wet, swollen and waiting.

  “I know what you’re doing,” Becket says hoarsely to Auden.

  “And what am I doing?”

  “You know.”

  Auden leans back in his chair, crossing his leg over the other again, and smiling at his friend. “I’m afraid I don’t know.”

  The wicked gleam in his eyes testify otherwise however, and we all know it. He knows we know it. His smile hooks even higher.

  “You’re teasing me with this. Because I haven’t asked for it yet.”

  While they speak, I lean forward and stroke Poe’s ankle. She peeps at me from underneath her arm, giving me a saucy wink. This must have been the plan all along, this must have been what they were whispering and laughing about. This whole moment was engineered so that she’d be arse up on the coffee table, her warm cunt spread wet and inviting. And at such a tempting height . . .

  Becket breaks before I do. He gets to his knees and leans forward to kiss the wetness between Poe’s legs, a slow kiss that’s more romantic than carnal, despite what he’s kissing. I hear Poe sigh as he does, a slow hum of contentment.

  “I have wondered why you haven’t asked to borrow her,” Auden says. He’s leaning forward now too, stroking the dark silk of her hair, but his smile is still aimed at Becket, who’s just pulled back from licking Poe’s slit. “And I wondered if perhaps you were punishing yourself. Abstaining. Starving yourself like sometimes you do.”

  Becket’s pupils are dilated, the iris around them a vivid blue. “Maybe I was,” he says. “It seemed right that I should . . . punish myself for my appetites. But not for the reasons you’re thinking.”

  “Oh?” Auden asks. “And what other reasons can there be?”

  Becket runs reverent fingers along the dark, pink petals, his eyes on Poe’s body. “I wanted to be sure,” he murmurs. The fire is reflected in his eyes. “I needed to be sure.”

  Auden doesn’t speak, doesn’t urge Becket to. Instead he watches as Becket caresses Proserpina, as Becket thinks over his answer.

  “I needed to be sure,” he says again, “because for years, I walked a path so well-worn that I didn’t have to think about where to step next. It was a path with its own gravity, its own momentum, and being a priest meant everything was decided, every choice already made. There were different ways to be a priest, of course, different versions of sanctioned holiness, but nonetheless, my steps were bounded, and now they are not. I feel like I’m in the middle of the woods or up on the moor, far, far away from any road. And it is wonderful and liberating, but terrifying too because each step is my own. Made with my own gravity and my own momentum. I want to make sure each step is the right one. That it takes me closer to where I want to be.”

  “And where do you want to be?” I ask.

  “Where I’ve always wanted to be,” is his quiet reply. “Near to God.”

  Auden meets Becket’s gaze over the curved offering of Poe’s body and nods. “You are a new kind of priest then. Or a very old kind.”

  Proserpina shifts the tiniest bit, and when she looks at me from under her arm again, I can tell she’s bursting with a thousand things she wants to say. Auden knows it too.

  “Later,” he says down to her. “You’re still apologizing.” But he gives her an affectionate, almost conspiratorial tug of her hair, as if to let her know he’s only saying that for the benefit of the scene.

  “So,” Auden says. “Are you sure now?”

  “I’m sure,” answers the priest, getting to his feet. He smooths a hand over Poe
’s upturned bottom. “I’m very sure.”

  “Well, then,” Auden says. “You should show me.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  St. Sebastian

  Becket pulls in a long breath, and then he unbuttons his cardigan and shrugs it off. He doesn’t pull off his shirt, but he doesn’t need to for us to see the shuddering seize of his stomach and ribs as he sucks in breath after breath or for us to see the way his nipples have bunched into little points or the trembling in his arms. He unfastens his pants, his cock falling free from the placket the minute he does, and then he stands there behind Poe, his eyes closed and his chin to his chest. He is half country house, half obscenity, and it heats my blood back to full boil. Yes, apparently I have a type, or one of them at least. Generational wealth mixed with vulgarity . . .

  I am shamefully susceptible to obscenity framed by expensive wool.

  “Go on,” Auden tempts, his fingers still tangling in Poe’s hair. “Take. You may have to find your own way to God, but I know the way to heaven, and it’s right in front of you.”

  Becket exhales slowly, opening his eyes. And then he reaches down to take Poe’s hand. “Thank you,” he tells her. His voice is shaking, and I can already see the pre-cum beading at his tip.

  “Don’t thank me yet,” Poe rejoins, voice muffled by her arms.

  “Hush,” Auden says. “Or I’ll hush you myself with a cock in that pretty mouth.”

  “Promises, promises. Ow!”

  Auden has pinched her arm. His eyes dance wickedly in the firelight. “I’m not averse to taking you over my knee again, little bride. Maybe I should give Becket a turn spanking you this time, hmm? You think he’d like that?”