Page 72 of The Butcher

“Brothers,” Nash grunts with a nod. “Zeke’s younger by a couple years but those Ambrose genes are strong as fuck. They stand out something fierce.”

He’s not kidding.

I’ve only clearly seen Bramley once, and despite that, I would have definitely known that man was his brother, no questions asked. Same as I can see his connection to Mona.

It’s funny that Nash knew what I was thinking, I just hope it stops at my curiosity over Zeke because I’m not ready for him to know that Arrow and I came from the same place.

I’m not sure I’ll ever be ready for that.

It doesn’t change that I know him, though.

We didn’t all know each other, it wasn’t like an omega club or something, but those of us who were paraded around in front of Harden’s richest clients, we saw more than most. We were able to get a better idea of what went on everywhere, and it was a way to know we weren’t alone.

They kept males and females separated. Made sure that we were as isolated as possible, not just from the others in our stables, but omegas everywhere on the property. But when there were events at the main house, we’d get to mingle a little, help each other get ready, and make sure we were all presentable, and Arrow and I were almost always at the same parties.

We weren’t allowed to talk to each other, not outside of prepping to go to the dining room, but when you see someone in the same shitty situation as often as you are, it’s hard not to form some sort of connection. Words aren’t always needed for that.

I’m so glad he got out.

“Indy?”

Blinking, I slowly shift my stare until I’m looking up into a pair of worried, grass-green eyes. “Sorry.”

Nash shakes his head and gives me a soft smile. “Nothing to apologize for, I just wanted to make sure you were okay.”

“I’m fine,” I say as we start walking again. “Just surprised by how much Zeke looks like his brother.”

“Right.”

I don’t miss the skepticism in his tone, but Nash doesn’t push, and I don’t elaborate. There’s no reason for either right now, and I’m already nervous enough about the random and pointless trip to the butcher shop, I don’t need to make things worse by diving into those conversations.

“Clayton should already be there.” Nash’s hand returns to the small of my back as the sidewalk begins to go uphill. Oh, I hope we never get to that shop. “I’m not sure how he convinced Bram to let us help him clean up, but he did, and that’s what we’re going to do when we get there. Not that cleaning is anyone’s idea of a good time…”

Smiling to myself, I look down at our boots, the ones that match, and notice our footsteps are in sync. “I don’t mind.”

Which is the truth.

Cleaning up the butcher shop, helping put it back together. That actually sounds like fun to me, but I’m the last one who should be weighing in at all. Before I got here, my idea of a good time was writing my name in the dirt on the floor of my stall. So, I jumped at the opportunity to do that part of this, and it was a good way to get us in without raising any red flags.

Like the huge one that will be flapping in the wind the second I walk in.

“You will,” Nash grunts. “Clay didn’t say anything about you.”

“Isn’t that the point?” That was my understanding of things, anyway.

They offer to help, Bram accepts, the three of us show up and given the state of things, the big crabby alpha can’t turn down the extra help, and the time spent together is supposed to help Bramley warm up to me.

It’s not a terrible idea, even if I think it is a terrible idea.

And my thought is validated the second we walk into Ambrose Butcher Shop.

“Knock it off, Clayton.”

I freeze as the door swings shut behind us, my eyes widening as they move between Nash and the doorway to the back.

“Oh, come on, Bramley, honey, just one little?—“

“I’m gonna wring your neck.”

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