Page 16 of The Butcher

I’m bleeding.

It only took a few pumps from a borderline feral alpha, and he tore my insides apart.

Why can’t I say anything?

This can’t be good for any of us, not if I bleed out right now, but I can hardly think straight, not with the way the pain is subsiding into an almost numb feeling, not with all of the intense scents mixing around me as I start to spin.

Fingers on my chin again.

My jaw drops as my eyes drift closed.

I keep lurching forward, the rocking movement painful but oddly soothing at the same time.

And just when I think that maybe I can get through this, that the numb feeling is better than the tearing, I realize I’m dead wrong.

Foster cries out as he pumps his hips two times before slamming his knot inside of me, my core stretching and tearing, no words to describe the feeling that lingers even as I lock him in. He rocks forcefully, emptying himself inside of me, and on the final shove, Hall shoves his erection between my lips and straight down my throat, his knot already swollen to its fullest and now locked in my mouth. Tears stream down my face as I gag, practically choking until I’m on the verge of blacking out, which is when I hear something that sends a chill down my spine.

“Well, at least if she doesn’t get pregnant tonight, she’ll go out with a bang.”

That’s the last coherent thing that registers before their booming laughter fades and I finally give in to the delirium they created.

Chapter Four

AIN’T GOT NO

Clayton

Staring out the office window, I grit my teeth and start counting backward from ten.

I watch as Nash slowly backs the box truck up to the rear exit, the thing loudly beeping its warning that the cooler-equipped vehicle is inching closer to its destination.

Nine.

The snow is falling in buckets, big fat flakes pelting the black painted sides as it drops visibility to an all-time low.

Eight.

I don’t know why Nash is driving. He has shitty vision on a good day. Then you throw in his night blindness, and the blizzard that hasn’t let up since they got back from Point Pleasant. Bramley should be the one in that seat, Even if it is only to back the truck up to the building.

Seven.

Actually, I should be the one driving. Out of the three of us, I’m easily the best driver—I don’t have road rage the way they do—and I handle this type of weather better than even Bram, who’s lived here his entire life. Granted, I moved here from Alaska, soit is not an entirely fair comparison, but still. Whenever we had shit to do and bodies to dump, I was the one who drove us.

That was my job.

That, and reigning in The Butcher and his Bo whenever they started to get carried away.

My control is better, it always has been. I’m more grounded. No matter the ecstasy I felt or how euphoric the high, I could stop before we started making mistakes. I didn’t lose myself to the act, never had that bloodlust, or urges so strong I didn’t keep my head on straight.

Don’t get me wrong, I love it.

The thrill of the hunt, the anticipation of the kill. I was doing this before I met the boys, all the way back to when I was little. A bonafide psychopath according to my pediatrician, and he was convinced I’d kill someone before I turned thirteen because I didn’t seem to have any empathy or morality.

He was right.

I was ten the first time I killed someone, but that doctor had the reasoning all wrong.

My moral compass might point in a strange direction with a crooked arrow, but I have one. I used it to gut my gym teacher after he tried to rape me, then strong arm me into keeping it a secret. He didn’t get what he wanted. I ran laps in the gymnasium while screaming my head off until the janitor came, then I told my parents, who told the cops, but they did nothing. Mom, Father, and Dad pulled me out of that school and made some sort of deal, so the reason why never got out, but the gym teacher was fired anyway.

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