He tipped the bottle to his lips, the amber liquid draining further. He breathed in harshly when he lowered the bottle.
“Have you ever wondered what we’re doing to them?” Sam finally asked quietly.
“Don’t, Sam.” Cade’s voice was dark, rough. “We don’t hurt them. We love them.”
Sam shook his head. He wiped his hand wearily over his face, leaning forward in the chair, staring at the floor now.
“She likes the pain doesn’t she, Brock?” Sam didn’t look at his brother.
They all knew Sarah liked the edge of pain. Cade had discovered that earlier, Brock had known it since the first. There was no disguising her screams, her pleas in the dead of night, the sound of his hand slapping her ass.
“Sam, you don’t have to ask my permission.” Brock felt helpless, uncertain of what his brother needed.
“You would,” Sam whispered.
Surprise flared in Brock’s chest. Sam’s head raised, his gaze tortured, glittered with agony, haunted with the past.
Brock shrugged. He glanced at Cade, feeling as uncertain as his other brother looked.
“Sam—” Cade started to speak, his voice low, vibrating with concern.
“Forget it.” Sam fell back in the chair and drank again.
He was taking long, hard pulls of the liquor. Sam had never been much of a drinker, so it worried them both that he was hitting the bottle so hard now.
“I want to forget,” Sam whispered, staring at the leafy ceiling once again.
His voice was agonized. It seared their brains, their souls with the memories. Brock shook his head, his fists clenching, unable to look at his twin. He could feel his rage, Sam’s rage, beating at his heart. The bond they had shared when they were younger had been nearly destroyed in those nightmare months. Now, Brock only knew it again during sex, or during the overwhelming grief that often gripped Sam.
“That’s enough.” Cade came to his feet, his voice hard, final. “We can’t change it and we can’t forget. And there’s no sense in allowing the bastard to win. We survived, Sam, it’s better than many would have done.”
Cade turned his back on them. He propped his shoulder against the patio support, his head lowered. Brock took a deep, hard breath.
“Where’s your woman, Brock?” Sam asked him, his voice easing into a low, slow, drawl after drinking heavily from the bottle once again.
“You don’t touch my woman drunk, Sam. You know we don’t do that. Sarah can’t ease this demon and I won’t make her try.”
The demon, rage. Rage so all-consuming, so bitter and soul-worn that Brock knew Sam would never find the softness within himself to touch Sarah with any tender emotion. He wouldn’t allow his brother’s demons to destroy the fragile balance they were building within their home. The pleasure Sarah received from their touch could be tainted for all time if Sam took her in anger.
“I wasn’t going to fuck her.” Sam rose slowly to his feet now, his shoulders slumped, his voice broken. “Just wanted to make sure I stayed out of her way. I know I’m not fit for a whore, let alone a good woman.”
Brock had a feeling Sam wasn’t talking about just while he was drunk.
“Sam.” He came to his feet as his brother stumbled to the study doors.
“I’m heading to bed, Brock.” Sam waved his hand back. “Maybe I can sleep it off.”
There was a better chance of the nightmare leaving him screaming in broken rage. Brock glanced at Cade, who was now watching the weaving twin as he entered the study. Absolute worry creased his face, pain wearied it.
“She meant something to him. More than just a friend.” Cade sighed deeply. “Fuck. He should have told us. We would have tried to protect her.”
Brock thought of the redhead wildcat sister of Tara Glaston. She wouldn’t have accepted protection. She was too busy trying to give it. He sighed wearily, shaking his head at the pain and grief that surrounded Sam now. It would ease, when the three of them came together with Sarah. It always did. It didn’t make sense and hell, a psychiatrist would have a field day with them. But it worked for them. They had survived and they were still a part of each other. That was all that mattered. They had won. The Monster had lost. Or had he?
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
The house was quiet, the television set at low sound in consideration for Sarah who sat at the far side of the family room, engrossed in a book. Television had never been her thing.
The men were in their normal loungewear, sweatpants and bare chests and feet. Marly was dressed in one of Cade’s long shirts and dozed comfortably. Sarah wore one of the nightshirts she preferred. It went past her knees and was loose enough to allow for the lack of a bra. Not that wearing one did any good in this household. The men here thought they were made to hide. Every one she owned had disappeared.