Page 10 of The Butcher

Eighteen years.

That’s a long fucking time to be with anyone, especially without ever having an omega but when it’s right, it’s right, and we all saw how important it is to hold tight to what you’ve got while you’ve got it.

Unfortunately for me, that means I’ve been worrying about Bramley fucking Ambrose every goddamn day for the last fifteen of those eighteen years because he’s got a vendetta the size of the galaxy, rightfully so, and has been like a ticking time bomb just waiting to go off the entire time. One neither Clay nor myself can diffuse and if he hadn’t gone hunting last night, I’m sure we’d be having another rough day.

There have been more of those lately.

With a frown, I grab the brush and start on Thunder’s mane.

I’m not sure if it’s because this year was some sort of milestone in Bram’s eyes, or if it’s more because he can’t get to the root of the problem despite his best efforts for the better part of the last decade and a half. Whatever it is, he’s been edgierlately, wound really tight, and I’m starting to worry that there’s more going on than I want to think there is.

Sometimes I’m convinced this place is getting to him.

Staying here, reliving the past every time he steps outside. It’s not good for him. It’s not good for anyone who still lives in Obsidian Falls, if I’m being honest, because all you have to do is walk down Main Street and you’ll know something isn’t right.

It’s not wrong, though.

It was a tragedy.

Mass murder.

Everything changed that day and I know for a fact Bramley unjustly blames himself and his family for not stopping it from happening. Because this town was founded on Ambrose blood, my alpha shoulders the brunt of the guilt.

That’s why he’s made it his mission to rectify the wrongs of fifteen years ago, and make sure nothing like that ever happens again.

Andthat’swhy I worry about him the way I do, why I silently stress the fuck out over how this heavy, dark tension is growing inside him.

If Bramley fucking cracks, it’s lights out for all of us.

We’ll be going to war with a different kind of beast, and I’m not sure even The Butcher of Obsidian Falls can handle himself at full, fucked up power.

With a huff,I pull my collar higher, bunching my shoulders up to my ears while I squint against the wall of white raining down in front of me.

My boots slip and slide over the sidewalk, the fresh snow and slush mixing in just the right way to make my normal ten-minute walk from my place to Bram’s nothing short of some stupid miracle mile.

Doesn’t help that I’m walking uphill.

So much for military grade snow boots.

Same for the fucking jacket, for that matter.

I’m going to be soaked to the bone by the time I get to the shop if I don’t hurry my ass up, but every time I try to, I slide backward a few inches or basically run in place.

I’ll never get used to this.

After a couple of decades, I should be, but I’m not, and I’ll cry about the damn snow all I want. Right up until the first day of spring.

“I was wondering when you were going to show up.”

“Am I that predictable?” I grunt as I try to peel my coat off. “Bram starts cooking and you figure I’ll come running?”

Clay nods as he flips through the magazine in his hands. “Yes. You always want the details about his hunts and if he’scooking”—he visibly shudders— “you know that means he’s usually willing to give them to you.”

Stomping the snow from my boots, I hang my coat on the hook then walk over to the fireplace so I can thaw. “Hunting helps.”

“I know.”

“His mind is clearer.”

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