Page 116 of The Butcher

Nodding firmly, I keep on my path toward the house, but almost immediately stop when my stomach pitches at my next thought.

Clayton was mad.

It wasn’t his normal pissed off, the one that still has a playful edge. There wasn’t any sarcasm, no quips about how dumb I was behaving or anything like that. Clay didn’t talk over me with hisversion of how things were going to go, or how he could change my behavior with some sort of sexual act. There wasn’t even the more serious edge when Clayton has to try a little harder to get through to me, and he hardly played referee when Nash came after me.

Not that I needed him to, or was trying to make that happen when I walked out, but he almost always makes sure there’s a lid on things when it’s all said and done, but he didn’t this time.

He stood between us, made some space, then… Well, fuck. Clayton just stared daggers at me when I pointed to my truck and waited for them to get in. I’m actually almost positive the only words he spoke outside of telling us to calm the hell down was asking Nash if he wanted to drive the box truck—which is weird in itself—and if he remembered to grab the straps for the back.

Indy isn’t the only one I could have done irreparable damage to. After almost twenty goddamn years, I might have pushed my alpha and beta to a point that we can’t come back from.

Turning on my heel, I start marching toward the pole barn, completely convinced my ice breaker isn’t gong to do a damn bit of good, and I should probably just handle it now without letting any of them know. Then I’ll go inside, pack my shit, and head to our cabin upstate. I’ll let them know where I am, but I’ll go, and I won’t come back this time.

My stomach rolls then tightens at that.

I don’t want to do that.

I don’t want to do any of that, nor do I want to be that far away from the three of them again. But I’m such a fucking shithead, I’ll be lucky if none of them send me packing when they see me, anyway.

“What the hell are you doing?”

I cringe at the sound of Indy’s voice, not because it’s her, or that I don’t want to hear her speak despite that sweet, almostmelodic accusatory tone she just used. I cringe because the question she just asked means that she’s probably been watching me argue with myself while walking back and forth through the yard like a dumbass.

“Yes, I was watching you go back and forth like an idiot.”

I roll my eyes, annoyed with how strong our bond already is, and slowly turn to face her, regretting it immediately.

Fuck, she looks gorgeous right now.

It’s late afternoon but the sun is already starting to set, the winter hours still hanging on as February flies by. Even while she’s standing there in a gigantic hoodie and flannel pajama pants, with her hood pulled up, and the plaid cuffs shoved into her boots, Indy is a fucking vision, and the soft pinks and yellows of the setting sun highlight every perfect feature of her face.

Which proves that I’m well and truly fucked because I’ve felt like this exactly twice in my thirty-eight fucking years on this planet.

When Carlisle brought Nash into their house for Sunday dinner, the alpha nervous as fuck, and looking like he was ridden hard and put away wet. He’d been hitching from Illinois, catching rides with whoever he could, scraping nickels and dimes together to grab a meal when possible. Nash was a little thinner than he should have been for his size, wearing clothes that must not have belonged to him, or anyone else in the last decade, and his glasses looked like they’d been broken and put back together about a million times.

Up until that point, I’d never given a shit about anyone I’d been with, and I was a big enough dickhead—bigger than I am now—to look at someone and concern myself more with whether or not I thought they’d be a good lay, than literally anything else that could come from speaking to them. I didn’t care about relationships or feelings, and I sure as hell didn’t get the urge to take care of someone or settle down. But the second I saw him,my fucking heart skipped a beat over how beautiful I thought he was, how badly I wanted to take him home with me, and the way my chest ached the first time I saw him smile. I wanted all of those things with him, the relationship, the feelings, the settling down, and the sex. All of it. I wanted Nash, and he’s been mine ever since because I wasn’t going to have it any other way.

The other time?

It was one of the few times I tried hunting before anything happened with the Hardens.

Nash and I were already living together, but it had only been a few weeks, so we were trying to navigate our relationship while getting to know each other. All while my alpha was trying to figure himself out, and deal with adjusting to living somewhere that he wasn’t locked up twenty-three hours a day. Needless to say, it was an interesting time, and we were both clueless.

I felt similarly to the way I do right now, like I was doing all of the wrong things. I was fighting certain parts of being with someone, putting a strain on our relationship because of who I am as a human, basically, and I had no idea what to do next. I felt like I was coming right out of my fucking skin, and Nash knew that, so he took the reins for the first time, because I’m a goddamn control freak on top of everything else. He found our cabin upstate in an ad in the paper, made all of the necessary calls and arrangements, and he decided we were going to go duke it out in the middle of nowhere without any distractions. Problem was, when we got there, someone was squatting in the cabin, and I lost my fucking shit.

The disappointment and frustration I felt coming off of my alpha was enough for me to snap, and I scared that squatter right out of the first thing we ever bought together, then I chased the fucker through the woods. He was fast, and I’m pretty sure he was hopped up on PCP or something, which made him even faster, but I stuck with him the best I could. Then, justas I was convinced, I wasn’t going to get to kill the homeless crackhead trying to ruin the first good thing to ever happen to me, something fucking weird went down.

Someone stepped out from behind a tree, swinging a huge branch like a fucking baseball bat, and damn near took the bastard’s head off with a grand slam kind of power. Then he did it again when the dude dropped to his knees, his skull splitting from the impact, the shot perfect like he was hitting a baseball off a T.

Why are we chasing him?

That was the first thing Clayton ever said to me, and it was after he’d almost beaten the guy to death, but that’s how I knew. That huge fucking smile, his dimples popping on either side, those honey-colored eyes sparkling as he looked at me. Clay helped me take the body back to the cabin, helped Nash and I dispose of it once we made sure he was dead. He was covered in blood and mud, breathing heavily and giggling the entire time we worked, and he seamlessly did all of it, as if he was supposed to be with us. He was obviously unhinged, but he was mine, he was ours, and Nash and I both gave Clayton our bites that same night.

Those were the two times in my life when I just knew how things were supposed to go, I knew without a doubt what was mine, and when I fell in love so fucking fast and hard it made my head spin.

Right now, looking at Indy, I feel that way again.

I am disgustingly in love with that woman, and I want her, scowl and all.

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