Page 11 of The Butcher

“It is.”

I hold my hands close to the flames, turning them over before I rub them together. “He’s calmer.”

“I know that, too,” Clayton says as he lifts his head. “Maybe you should start going with him again.”

My head swings in his direction with a scowl, my glasses still foggy from walking into the shop after being out in the cold so I take them off and narrow my eyes. “You know why I don’t go anymore.”

“Mhm,” he says with a smirk. “Because the two men I love more than anything in the entire world treat me like I’m their omega even though I’m their beta. Not that I’m complaining too much.”

I roll my eyes and go back to the fire.

Clayton has a little bit of a point; one he’s made before and will no doubt make again but it’s not really like Bramley and I treat him like an omega. Neither of us has the slightest fucking clue how to do that, not without an actual omega to kick our instincts into gear, but we are pretty damn protective ofour beta,and nothing is going to change that.

And no, Clayton didn’t really get a vote when Bram decided he can’t go hunting with us anymore, just like I didn’t when he decided I should stay to keep Clay safe. We both accepted it, though. We accepted, adjusted, and now I wait for Bramley to get home from hunting so I can pump him for the details since I have to miss out on things.

Which makes me sound like a dickhead.

It’s not so much that I’m missing out, and Clayton is by no means a burden or anything else negative, but we had a great system for a long time and regardless of what we were doing, the weekends away from Obsidian Falls were a welcome change of pace. Getting out of this town for a few days made a big difference and while it still does for our alpha, the two of us are left to worry.

Correction.

I’mleft to worry while Clay continues living as the physical embodiment of positive energy and happy thoughts. If I didn’t love him, I’d be fucking annoyed by that.

“Damn straight.”

“Pardon?” I frown as I turn to face him again.

He nods, his feet swinging back and forth in front of the counter he’s perched on. “You had a teeny tiny little smile crack your grumpy face. I know what that means, Nash.”

“Yeah?”

“You were thinking about how positive I always am. It’s one of the only times you smile like that.”

“Like what?” I ask as I walk toward him.

Clay shrugs one shoulder. “Like you’re genuinely happy and not stressed for a few seconds.”

Because he’s right, and because I want to go find the source of my stress so I can put some of it at ease for a few minutes, I reach out and hook my fingers in the collar of my beta’s t-shirt and tug him toward me for a kiss.

One Clayton immediately reciprocates and smiles into.

“I haven’t been back to see him yet.”

“No?” I ask against his lips before a quick peck. “I thought you would have wandered back there already.”

He shakes his head as I release him. “He was still outside when I got here and it’s way too cold for me. Bram came in about five seconds before you walked through the door, so I figured I’d just wait.”

I take a step back and clasp my hands together behind my back as I watch Clay set the magazine to the side then carefully hop down off the counter. He wobbles a little, gingerly placing his weight on his right leg while getting his footing with his left.

It’s so goddamn hard not to help him. I try not to; we both do but we have to fight the urge to pick him up and move him around like a rag doll because it makes Clayton mad if we even think he might need a hand. We learned pretty quickly that our ray of sunshine is a stubborn little shit with a death stare that would make any living thing tuck tail and run from him, so we stopped trying to help shortly after he started needing it. I had no idea how scary he was until then.

And that wasafteryears ofwatching our beta gut and skin his kills like he was born doing it.

“No Lucy today?” I ask, distracting myself from the way he limps toward the doorway to the back.He should have his fucking cane.

Clay shakes his head, his shaggy blonde hair fanning out a little at his neck. “Too cold for meandher. She’s curled up in a ball right where you left us at the ass crack of dawn.”

He keeps talking, telling me about the huge calico main coon cat currently warming our bed, how she refused to budge when he got ready to go to work but I hardly hear him. I can barely focus on anything when his leg is bad like this, when it’s almost painfully obvious the cold is getting to him in more than one way.

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