Page 63 of The Butcher

If I thought life outside the ranch would be this strange and full of so many unknowns, I’m not sure I would have wanted to leave it.

Ha.

I shake my head and internally roll my eyes.

It didn’t matter then, and it doesn’t matter now. Weird as hell or just as confusing, anything is better than the ranch, and the fact that I momentarily questioned that is insane.

Which probably means I’ll fit right in with Mona and whoever else is down this long, dimly lit hallway.

“Goddamnit, get his hand!”

I stop at the sound of Nash’s voice, my feet rooted in place just short of a closed door.

“Nan’s gonna be pissed,” Clayton shouts. “He ripped that shit right out!”

My eyes widen as they dart from the door to Mona, who sighs and shakes her head as if this entire thing is annoying rather than as dire as she initially made it seem. “It’s either the IV, or his stitches, and either way Clay is right, I’m going to be pissed.” She walks ahead of me, pushing through the wood, allowing more of that scent out into the hall, mumbling until she disappears into the darkened room. “Rex can deal with it. I’m not poking and prodding that idiot again, he’s his son, he can do it.”

I start wringing my hands as I take one step toward the doorway, then freeze when I hear someone bark, “Let me go!”

Frozen.

I am completely frozen, and even though I’m not holding anyone down or back or anything else, I can’t help but feel like that was directed at me, and I’m supposed to listen to it.

“Get the fuck away from me with that, Rex,” that deep, gravely voice booms. “I swear to fucking?—“

My gaze snaps toward the room as I take a few quick steps in the same direction, my fingers twisted in my grip so tightly my knuckles are white.

Why did he stop yelling?

I need to hear him.

Angry, in pain, whatever else he’s feeling, I need to hear it so long as it’s reflected in his voice. As long as I know those things haven’t taken over. As long as they haven’t quieted him.

He needs to keep speaking.

I have to know?—

“You son of a fucking bitch!”

I blow out a breath, my shoulders sagging in relief as he bellows more obscenities, as the scent that’s been screwing with me since I first smelled it, flares. It grows, and between that, andthe tone the voice yelled in, I’m compelled to find the source of both.

Swallowing hard, I muster up what little courage I have, forcing myself into the room, and it’s as if time stands still and everything goes silent the second my eyes adjust.

There, on the bed, barely covered by a sheet, is a man. A very large man, bigger than Nash, thrashing around and fighting… Oh my god.

He’s fighting everyone.

Clayton and Nash, and three other men, two of which aren’t exactly small, and the third is genuinely trying to help but the man on the bed is flinging him around like a rag doll.

“Get his wrist!” One of them shouts. “Get it in the cuff!”

My eyes snap to the cuff in question, that almost spicy scent roaring around me now, strong and almost as angry as the man on the bed, and when I watch them try to shackle him to it, something inside me snaps.

It snaps because it feels like they’re trying to shackle me.

“Don’t you dare,” I cry out as I rush toward the bed. “Do not restrain him!”

The entire room falls silent, everyone stops moving, almost as if they’re frozen in place, and when I’m within range, I shove the one man out of the way and yank the cuff from his hands.

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