Page 3 of The Butcher

“What does that mean?”

“I want my fucking revenge.” I spin on my heel and storm through the door, ready to call this entire thing off and go find Bryce Harden myself, but when I feel a hand on my shoulder, I stop.

Clayton turns me around to face him, immediately cupping my cheeks in his hands as his eyes lock in with mine. “Sit down and breathe, Bramley.”

Gritting my teeth, I allow my beta to plant my ass in a chair, pressing down on my shoulders to make sure I actually settle. “What happened?”

I turn my head, staring at the closed door of the private room while biting my tongue. Clay is just trying to help, trying to be the unconditional-in-all-ways saint he is, and he doesn’t deserve to be treated like shit because I’m ornery and sad.

“Talk to me, Bram,” he says with a sigh as he crouches in front of me. “You came flying out of the office like a bat out of hell and we wanted to follow you, but we didn’t. We gave you space, assuming that’s what you needed, but considering the way you treated that mirror, maybe that was the wrong thing to do.”

I huff and roll my eyes.

Three years in and he’s still trying to figure me out.

Not his fault, though.

I haven’t made this easy on him or Nash, and it isn’t really fair that I have them both read like my favorite book when they’re constantly flying by the seat of their pants just to keep up with me.

“Jesus. You are so fucking tense.” My gaze swings back toward Clayton as he starts working the muscles in my legs. “You want to tell me about that phone call?”

One shake of my head.

I’m not fucking ready to dive into that, and he’s right. Today isn’t the day to be a raging psychopath. We need to get through my mother’s funeral andthenI can go ape shit. Which means keeping my trap shut about my phone call and praying to a god I don’t believe in that I won’t have an aneurysm from how fucking tense I am.

“You want to let me fix your hand?”

Another shake.

My beta sighs, digging his slender fingers into my calves before slowly moving them up toward my thighs.

I am fucking tense, tense and stressed the fuck out on top of everything else.

Grief and loss are devastating, keeping my family together has been hard but I’m also a few months into opening my own business so I’m running on goddamn fumes and haven’t really had time to process my own feelings and shit. Just like Clay was trying to say earlier.

“You want me to suck your cock?”

My eyes snap to his as my beta starts working the muscles dangerously close to my groin. “What the fuck did you just ask me?”

He shrugs one shoulder as one of his hands moves to my belt while the other slides closer to my dick. “It’s been a while.” Clay looks up at me with a grin, those deep brown eyes sparkling in the low lighting. “A few months, I think. Ever since you opened the shop.”

“Clayton,” I grunt, as he rests his palm on my crotch. “You were just giving me shit about…” With a sharp inhale, I watch him give me a squeeze through my slacks and get to his knees, the smell of shortbread flaring as he pushes my thighs open to make room for him.

That fucking scent.

“It’ll clear your head; make you feel better even if it’s only for a few minutes.” He starts rubbing me as he undoes my belt. “I think you need this, Bramley, and I know how much you love it. Watching me suck you off and swallow you down.”

I can’t argue with that.

I fucking love watching Clay go down on me, but I’m not sure this is the time or the place for it.

Hell, who am I kidding.

I don’t fucking care.

I love my mother with my entire heart, but I’m not a real sentimental guy, not in that way, and we’re just burying her body. She already returned to the universe, she’s not the one lying in that casket anymore. Plus, I busted that mirror after I already destroyed Pap’s office—something they don’t know yet—so my moral compass is pretty much shot to hell.

Not that that’s saying much, it was nearly nonexistent before today so who the fuck cares if my beta gives me a blowjob before a funeral.

---