Page 103 of The Butcher

“Clean up your own mess, Butch,” Nash grunts as he sits down on the edge of the bed. “You can’t all but ice us out then come running when you kill a couple of strangers in Nan’s barn.”

Ignoring most of that, and banking it for later, I start chewing the inside of my cheek as I ask, “Do you know where they came from?”

Bram frowns, probably, as he turns to me. “No.”

That’s good.

Most of Harden’s men were mandated to wear some sort of ID showing they worked at the ranch. If he sent someone to find me, they’d have to have a badge or something, and Bramley would have seen that when he ran into them.

I clear my throat, trying to seem like I’m not about to freak out. “Do you know who they are?”

“No… I got names but that doesn’t tell me shit.”

I’m not sure if that’s good or not, names don't necessarily mean they worked at the ranch. We all have names, first and last, some even have middle names, and that doesn’t mean they’re farriers or tattoo artists, same as it wouldn’t mean they work at that horrible place.

“Do you…” My stomach pitches before it ties itself in knots. “Do you know why they were here?”

“Why?”

I shake my head, fighting the need to run to my nest.

If I do that, if I show them I’m starting to panic at all, that could lead to questions I’m not ready to answer. Questions I don’t want to answer. Answers that could change the life I’m trying to build with my mates.

“Indy?” Bram takes one step toward me, and I swear I hear concern in his voice, but that must mean I’m really spiraling.

Why would he care if I’m on the verge of a panic attack?

“You asshole,” Nash shoves past Bram as he rounds the bed, coming straight for me with worry in his eyes. “Indy, sweetheart, look at me.”

I’m trying to, but I can’t see him.

The more I try to focus, the harder it is, and the closer I get to that free fall.

“Get over there.”

I hear Clayton’s voice, but he sounds so far away. So far, and out of reach.

My chest starts to heave, pumping hard in order to keep up with my heartbeats, but I can’t get any air. It’s like my lungs are closed up, sealed tightly, and I can’t take a full breath. I keep twisting the sheet, my fingers sore, the skin growing raw, scraping against the soft fabric as if it were sandpaper. My vision goes dark around the edges, blurring in and out, filling with spots then a flash of light, and just when I feel like I’m about to scream, everything suddenly stops.

“Indigo.”

I blink away the tears, and the fog, my hands stilling, and I finally take a deep breath.

“That’s it, honey.”

That voice.

That’s the voice, those are the words that pulled me back, the one I swore I heard when I knew I was going to die.

Finally able to focus on more than my blood rushing in my ears, I can feel warm, gentle pressure on different parts of my body, and immediately start to analyze.

Nash is behind me.

I know it’s him, pressing his front to my back, his arms tight around my waist, his nose buried in my hair.

My hands, they stopped because Clay is sitting in front of me, holding them. My hands are on top of his, his tattooed fingers threaded through mine, my knuckles pressed against his lips.

When the fog completely lifts, that’s when I realize that it wasn’t just the two of them who kept me from totally losing it.

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