Page 18 of The Butcher

Bramley was scared, and he was dealing with it the only way he knew how.

It didn’t mean I had to like it, but I accepted it.

What really kept me from throwing a fit, though, was Nash.

For some reason that makes no sense to me, or anyone else for that matter, he blames himself for what happened to me.

It was a freak thing, a total accident, and Nash got shot in the arm right before it happened.

I don’t even think that Harden-loving senior citizen was to blame but Nash quietly disagrees, and I didn’t put up a fight because I didn’t want him to feel any worse than he already did. Plus, Bram grounded him, too, which makes me feel like shit since it means he can’t go hunting either.

And that comes full circle to my current predicament.

My alphas are walking around at maximum stress every day, a hair trigger away from exploding at the drop of a dime, and it all stems back to the one in a million incident that turned me into a transtibial amputee. It’s almost like that was the exact moment the two of them realized none of us are going to live forever, and they’re panicking or some shit.

Nash thinks Bramley is the only one ready to go off, but I can see it in him, too.

I was hopeful that the most recent hunt was going to be different, especially with its bigger trophies that had been sitting in our walk-in freezer far longer than usual, but the relief Bram experienced was only temporary, and it seems that heavy, dark tension that’s been eating away at them for the better part of a year is back in full force.

With a frown, I go back to creeping on my men, watching Nash back the truck up at a snail’s pace while Bram flails his arms and yells at him through the open window. The vehicle moans and screeches as it shifts gears, lurching forward before jerking back only to slide a few more inches in the snow and stop right in front of Bramley.

This is one of the most frustrating things I have ever witnessed, and it’s all going down because those two are stubborn assholes who can’t swallow their fear long enough to trust that I know where my limits are.

It’s my goddamn left leg, for fuck’s sake.

I can’t handle it anymore.

This shit ends tonight.

I’ve been an exceptionally good beta, a fabulous partner who has humored the men I love long enough, and that’s exactly what I’ll remind them of when they blow up at me for what I’m about to do.

With a grin, I bend down and roll the cuffs of my jeans, tucking them tightly into the tops of my boots before I limp my way to the wall where my parka is hanging. I pull my beanie on then flip up my hood, zip my coat all the way to my chin, and shove my hands inside my gloves in case I have to toss someone into a fucking snowbank to cool the hell down because it’s about to get heated.

But I want my boys back.

Sure, Bramley and Nash are dickheads by nature, both of them crabby overall and quick to pick a fight, but I like that about them. They’re so different from me. I don’t think either of them have ever had a sunshiny bone in their body, never really donned a positive outlook on anything except getting laid or hunting, and while I’ve never thought twice about murdering someone I don’t particularly care for, I am the polar opposite. I will gut a fucker with a big old smile on my face, whistle a tune while I cut them up, and I’ll giggle while I load them into the bed of my truck. Psychopaths aren’t that cheery. And I know they like that about me, but they need it in other settings. That balance, the light I bring to their dark, it’s why we work so well together and I’m tired of watching Bram walk around so angry all the time, tired of the way Nash worries himself sick over us. Things are getting worse, we’re all tense as fuck because of it, and I think I can put somewhat of a band aid on this bullet hole for a little while until whatever is going to happen, happens.

Bram doesn’t like leaving us, we don’t like him hunting alone—Zeke and Tus don’t count, they each have their talents, but they’re brothers so shit gets messy—and doing things as a team always worked better. Efficient, effective, fucking impressive if I do say so myself. The three of us truly are partners in every way we can be and knowing deep down that there’s more out there for us, that this shift we feel isn’t going to just blow over—whether it’s a good, bad, or indifferent thing has yet to be seen—it’s enough for me to put my prosthetic foot right up their asses in order to get ready for whatever is coming.

It’s my turn to be the big bossy asshole for a change.

I grin as I throw open the door, marching the best I can toward the back of the truck while my uneven gate fights through the two feet of shit on the ground. The brake lights glow brightly as I disappear out of the mirror’s view, a redhue painting my parka while tires spin, sending slushy snow spraying all over my jeans.

Almost didn’t see me, did you, Nashy?

I turn the corner in time to see Bram punch the side of the truck, yelling at Nash before he takes a few steps back and tries guiding him again but as soon as he sees me, he abandons his mission.

“What the hell are you doing out here?”

I lift my hand and cover his masked mouth as I pass him, shoving him backward by his face as I continue toward my destination.

“I asked you a fucking question, Clayton,” Bram growls from behind me. “And if you ever do that?—”

“Out.” I stop next to the driver’s side window and grab the door handle. “Get out.”

Nash turns slowly, his glasses instantly fogging up as he faces me. “What did you just say?”

“I told you to get out of the truck.”

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