Page 112 of Vicious Butterfly
“What about Griffon?” Scary Goaltender says.
“This is how I save Griffon.”
“You sure about that? Because I’m still not seeing how this benefits Griff.”
“Maybe you need to mind your own fucking business?—”
“Alright, alright, dickheads,” the crazy one says, standing between them. “Rye-Rye’s a big boy. He can make his own stupid-ass decisions.”
“Fuck all of you,” Ryan says.
Wait. I don’t like how he sounds. He’s really fucking upset, all his muscles tightening. He doesn’t want them to knowhe’s upset. Always the perfect golden boy, but I bet he doesn’t feel so perfect these days. They’re not helping. I know what to do about them.
A hand slaps against my bicep. He’s careful not to touch the skin. “Don’t,” Ethan says.
“Then get it moving,” I growl. Okay, maybe I do growl.
“I’m not drunk enough for this,” Ethan mutters, knocking back the rest of his beer, slamming the glass on the counter. “Okay, children. Everyone’s old enough to be held accountable for whatever idiotic decisions they make tonight. Let’s do this.Ryan, ass over here, now.”
Ryan glares in Ethan’s direction, but then takes a last look at his friends, and with the mood I’m in, he’s lucky I haven’t pulled him over here by his leash—which some might call his face. Potato, potahto. I don’t love the turmoil dancing across his blue irises. I suck in calming breaths.
Five, four, three, two …
“I’m ready,” he says, stepping toward me. The big one scowls, still leaning against the wall. The other three take a seat on the steps that lead to my office. The crazy one in leather leans back on his elbows. The one who seems to be the only one on board settles between the one in leather’s legs. And Gideon pulls his hood over his head, eyes drooping.
Now that I’ve got Ryan, I wrap my fingers around his wrist and reel him to my body, molding him to me.
“Do you have rings?” Ethan barks, his tired tone belaying what little patience he has left. I’ll be forced to give him a raise after this.
I pull them from my pocket. I had them custom-made after that whole thing with Patrick asking about them. We’re not going to be able to wear these in public just yet, but we can wear them tonight.
Ethan reads through the words I typed out for him in preparation for this. I didn’t exactly plan to marry Ryan on the brewery floor, but I suspected we might not get the flashy wedding he deserves, and that I should be prepared for anything. I don’t give a fuck about anything but him being mine, but I would have given him whatever he wanted.
And he asked for this.
“Tate,” Ethan snaps. I raise a brow. “Just say I do.” He’s smart enough not to saymoron, but it’s implied.
Fuck. Where am I? I’m not even paying attention. I take Ryan’s strong left hand in mine and slide the ring onto his finger. “I fucking take you as my husband, dollface.”
Ryan smiles.
“D’aww,” the other-other one says. “There it is again.” Hmmm. He might be growing on me.
Ethan says more words I don’t hear. I’m busy watching over Ryan. Is he okay? He doesn’t look well-rested. And fuck. I know at least half of the anxiety ruffling his features is because of me, but there isn’t much I can do about that. I’m a goddamn mess. What happened tonight is bound to happen again if the rules aren’t followed. Uncle Jasper never bothered to have my brain fixed; his favorite pastime was feeding it and making it worse.
“I fucking take you as my husband, Tate,” he says, his words heavy with purpose. He pushes the ring past my first knuckle, but that’s where it stops, the bandages he wrapped there acting as a blockade. “Guess it doesn’t fit.”
Why does he look so fragile? It’s scratching against my insides. I need to take him out of here. Wrap my body around him. Protect him. My fingers catch the bandages, unveiling my battered finger. It’s an apt little metaphor—this is what I really am, just a raw piece of meat. Never fully healed. Willing to suffer confinement with Ryan.
Can I be in a cage with Ryan without him knowing I’m caged, too?
The blood helps it slide onto my finger. The swelling makes it a tight fit, but it does fit. Pain burns there as a reminder that we’re joined now.
“With the powers bestowed upon me from the World Wide Web?—”
“Oh, my fucking god, no one calls it that anymore, boomer,” Gideon says.
Isn’t he supposed to be the nice one? Maybe there isn’t a nice one.
