Page 42 of The Butcher

WELCOME TO THE INTERWEB

Clayton

Trying, and failing, to hide my smile, I watch Indy walk out of the closet—her nest—and hesitantly head my way.

She’s chewing her lip, and she’s pulled her hands into the sleeves of her hoodie, twisting the slack between her fingers underneath the cotton and fleece. Her anxiety is still high, I don’t think that’s going to change for a while, but she’s doing significantly better compared to the first time I invaded the spare room.

I can’t believe how much the nest helped.

My dad had one, so it’s not like the concept was entirely foreign, but it was different. My parents had been together for a few years by the time I came along and he’d been happily sharing his space with my mom for quite a while by then, and when I was born, being in there with them was normal. Dad wanted me in his space, too, and if he had anxiety or anything else going on, I didn’t see it. It was just a normal part of our house, of my life, and the significance was lost on me until now.

Which is why I’m here.

Well, it’s part of why I’m here right now.

“How are you feeling today?”

Indy stops about two feet in front of me, shifting back and forth nervously. “Okay.”

“Just okay?”

She nods then moves to fiddling with the strings on her hood. Her hood that’s flipped up and hiding her hair, and almost the entire top half of her face.

Arching a brow, I tilt my head slightly. “Believable.”

“I’m anxious.”

“I can see that.”

“I didn’t sleep very well.”

I had a feeling she was going to say that. Her lack of sleep is absolutely our fault, specifically Bramley’s fault, and the more time I spend with Indy, the more I want to throttle him for his shitty behavior.

That’s his fault, though.

Because he doesn’t like all the time I’m spending with Indy, or that I’m working up to getting Nash in here.

Is he jealous? No, not of anything except the fact that he can’t accept the truth of our new situation the way we have.

Bram is in this weird headspace where he’s trying way too fucking hard to live in denial, and when he can’t, he gets pissed off and throws a fit. Like he did last night.

That six-foot-five asshat was stomping around our bedroom, barking nonsense, and breaking shit, he was throwing things like an overgrown toddler in the middle of a tantrum. All because I told him I was going to come down and spend time with Indy, and help her order some things for her nest that she wanted. Clearly, it’s a sore spot, even without first hand experience with an omega who he wasn’t related to, Bramley is someone who does know the significance of a nest, purely based on his instincts as an alpha.

Bramley is fighting those instincts—and all of us—with the same ferocity he does everything and right now, it’s making his already shitty demeanor downright vile.

There’s a big part of him that wants to be doing what I’m doing.

The giant, scary Butcher wants to shop for fuzzy blankets and overstuffed pillows, he’s probably dying to look at dim lighting and soft fabrics then charge everything on his credit card before putting it all together without letting Indy lift a finger, if she doesn’t want to, of course. Bram wants to provide for his omega—his scent match—whether he’s willing to accept it or not, and that shithead is taking it out on me and Nash.

Who also wants to be doing those things.

Nash would be here in my place in a heartbeat, he’s essentially been sitting outside the door every day like a sad little puppy dog, but he understands Indy isn’t ready, and after listening to our alpha act like a douche canoe, Nash is worried she might never be.

But… Instead of helping Bram give into his instincts, he’s fully embracing his own, almost to a fault, and ignoring our alpha for what feels like an eternity while he does. Which is cute but it isn’t helping much of anything.

Once again, I’m stuck between those two in the most not fun way ever, and now there’s another person we need to be thinking about, and on the same page for. If I try telling them that, the big one who’s going through his terrible twos while pushing forty just loses his mind, and the slightly less big one quietly scowls until you can’t tell his eyebrows from his beard.

They’re ridiculous, and they’re lucky as fuck that I love them.

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