Chapter 3
BUTCHER
He knew the second she agreed that he’d just made a mistake—a big one. Butcher leaned against the workbench for a second longer than necessary after disappearing into the back office, dragging a hand down his face as her voice replayed in his head—sharp, controlled, pissed off at the world.
Her name was Princess. Christ—even her name sounded like trouble.
He should’ve told her no. Should’ve pointed her toward the office couch and left it at that.
It would’ve been smarter, safer, and cleaner.
Instead, he’d offered her his spare room.
He was taking her to his personal space—the place he went to when he needed peace and quiet.
“I’m a fucking idiot,” he muttered under his breath.
He wasn’t a man who invited chaos into his life, usually.
Not anymore. Not after everything that went down in Huntsville.
Losing Savage had taken its toll, and he had learned the hard way what happened when you let people get too close.
And that girl wasn’t just chaos, she was the kind of trouble that came wrapped in silk and secrets with a knife hidden behind her back.
He could feel it. Ten years of living alone had sharpened his instincts, not dulled them.
And everything about her screamed wrong place, wrong time, wrong kind of woman for a town like this.
She was too polished, and too damn used to giving orders.
And yet he’d seen the flicker in her eyes when she thought he wasn’t looking.
The crack in that perfect, bitchy armor she wore like a crown.
He saw her fear, exhaustion, and even something deeper—something familiar, and that was the problem.
Butcher pushed off the workbench and grabbed his keys, stepping back out into the shop.
She was still standing there, suitcase at her feet like she wasn’t sure whether to stay or bolt.
She had her chin lifted and shoulders squared—like she was daring the world to take a shot at her.
Yeah. He knew that stance because he’d worn it himself once.
“Ready?” he asked, voice rough, like none of this mattered. She looked at him like she was reconsidering every decision she’d made in the last twenty-four hours.
“Not really,” she shot back. “But I don’t have much of a choice, do I?” He smirked, grabbing her suitcase before she could protest.
“Nope,” he said.
Her eyes narrowed immediately. “I can carry my own bag.”
“I’m sure you can,” he said easily, already heading toward the door.
“Doesn’t mean you have to.” He didn’t miss the way she hesitated before following him, or the tension in her steps.
But the fact that she followed him anyway told him more than anything else.
She didn’t trust him, but she needed something, and people who wanted something usually didn’t ask for help unless they were out of options.
He helped her into his truck and put her bags in the back.
The ride to his place was quiet. His truck rumbled down the dirt road, headlights cutting through the thick Mississippi night.
He kept his eyes forward and his hands steady on the wheel, but he was aware of her in that passenger seat in a way that irritated the hell out of him.
She didn’t fidget, didn’t talk to him, and didn’t feel the need to fill the silence the way most people did when they got uncomfortable.
She just looked around like she was cataloging everything.
A part of him wondered if she was judging him.
“Got something to say?” he finally asked, not looking at her.
“Plenty,” she replied coolly. “I just don’t see the point.”
That pulled a low chuckle out of him. “Smart woman,” he breathed.
“Don’t mistake my silence for submission,” she snapped. Butcher’s grip tightened slightly on the wheel, something dark and amused curling in his chest.
“Wouldn’t dream of it, Princess,” he said. She made a sound under her breath—half frustration, half something else, and turned to stare out the window. He let the silence settle between them again, because honestly, it was easier to deal with than trying to figure her out.
His house came into view a few minutes later—small, solid, and tucked back off the road with just enough distance from town to keep people away.
It was the kind of place a man built when he didn’t want company, and that worked for Butcher because the last thing he needed was anyone snooping around his place.
He killed the engine, stepping out and grabbing her bags before she could argue with him again. This time, she followed behind him more slowly, her heels crunching against the gravel as she took everything in.
“Wow,” she said flatly. “You live out here?”
He glanced back at her. “You have a problem with the location of my house?”
She crossed her arms. “Just didn’t expect you to be domesticated enough to own a house.”
He snorted. “I’m not.” That much was true.
This place wasn’t about comfort; it was about control.
It was something he decided that he needed after everything else in his life went to hell.
Losing his old life, club, and friends had taught him a valuable lesson—life was short.
Sure, that sounded cliché, but he didn’t give a fuck.
When he opened his shop and started earning a good living, he decided to buy the old house in the middle of nowhere.
It had given him stability that he was missing in his life.
Unfortunately, he was never able to replace the friends or club that he had left back in Huntsville.
He unlocked the door and stepped inside, flipping on the lights. “Spare room’s down the hall,” he said, setting her bags just inside. “Bathroom’s attached, and the towels are clean.”
She hovered in the doorway like stepping inside meant crossing a line she wasn’t sure she could uncross. Butcher watched her for a second too long. Something about the way she stood there—torn between running and staying that hit a nerve he didn’t like.
“Relax,” he said, tone rougher than he meant it to be. “If I wanted to hurt you, I wouldn’t have brought you here.” Her gaze snapped to his, sharp and assessing.
“Gee, that’s comforting,” she drawled.
He huffed out a breath. “Didn’t say I know how to treat guests.” For a second, something almost like a smile ghosted across her lips, and then it was gone.
“Where’s the room?” she asked. He jerked his chin down the hall, and she grabbed her bag, and this time, she didn’t let him help as she walked past him without another word.
Butcher stood there, listening to her footsteps fade, the soft click of a door closing.
And just like that, his peaceful quiet was gone.
He exhaled slowly, staring at the empty hallway.
It had been ten years of silence, routine, control, and now there was a woman in his house who looked like she belonged in a penthouse, not a mechanic’s spare room.
She was a woman with secrets written all over her.
She didn’t trust him, but that worked for him because he didn’t trust her, either.
But somehow, he already knew that this wasn’t temporary.
This wasn’t going to be simple, and he was sure that this wasn’t going to end clean for either of them.
Butcher dragged a hand over his jaw, his old scar pulling tight.
“Yeah,” he muttered to himself, heading for the kitchen. “This is gonna be a problem.”