Chapter Two
Rory’s alarm blared the coming of a new day. Outside of his second story window, he heard nightingales raise their voices in chorus. Crickets vibrated their hind legs in search of carnal company.
Pulling open one eyelid, he peered out his window to see the moon in the sky. The presence of the celestial deity pulled on the base instincts of the inhabitants of the earth. Rory reached out and slammed the alarm clock until it’s screeching ceased. The bang silenced the birds out on the windowsill. The crickets’ rubbing ceased as they likely scurried away.
Silence ensued, but the bright rays of the moon did not dim. In his heart of hearts, Rory wanted to curse the Goddess. But he knew that his curses would land on deaf ears. The Goddess had not cared to hear his prayers for many years.
Rory rolled his body over and up. He swung one leg off the bed. Then, using both his hands, he hefted his other leg off the mattress and onto the floor. With a heave and a ho, he pushed his large body upright to standing. On his ascent, he stumbled but reached out to the side wall to steady himself.
A curse escaped his lips.
He took a step on his good leg. But his lame one was stiff, and he wobbled. Undaunted, Rory took another step and was met with the same result. He reached out for his cane. Leaning his weight onto the stick, he was able to make it over to his closet.
Peering inside, he searched for his daily wardrobe; torn jeans and a T-shirt. He slipped on the last part of his uniform—his apron—and tied it around his waist. It would be covered in blood and guts in under an hour.
Passing by a mirror, he ran his hands through his disheveled hair. Meanwhile, his eyes attempted to not get a good look at himself. They failed.
A wild beast stared back at him. His dark eyes were made even darker by the bags beneath them. His shaggy, overgrown hair could not cover that fact, though the long strands tried. Rory pressed the palms of his hands over the planes of his unkempt beard in an effort to smooth it all back, but it sprang out in each direction. Giving up, he turned from the mirror and headed downstairs.
In the sink was a block of ice where tongues as big as his feet had defrosted during the day while he slept. Two fresh carcasses had been delivered and hung up in the center of his work area. Rory grabbed his handsaw and began working on the hindquarters of the carcass.
This bull had been well-reared, well-fed, and well taken care of from its first step to its last. Rory would honor such a well-made creature as he sliced it up into bits.
The sound of flesh and sinew being stripped filled the room. The grind of metal hitting bone hummed in his ears; his favorite sound. Rory separated hindquarters from hips, ribs, and shanks. Pretty soon, the first bull was broken down and placed in the display at the front of the shop.
Returning to the back of the shop, he reached for a six-inch blade and began work on carving out tenderloins for his customers. He shaved his blade along the broadside of the meat, pulling at the tissue and trimming the grain.
The tiny scars and keloids all over his hands and fingers flexed and bunched as he worked. The wounds and battle scars were earned from years of hunting and butchering. He’d learned everything he’d known from his father; the art of hunting and his skill with a blade. The talent was in the Garcia bloodline. Though the skill had definitely skipped over certain members of his family.
Rory shook himself. He hadn’t had a day without thoughts of his brother, the reason he was in the shape that he was in now. And the shape he was in was alone, in the back of a butcher’s shop, with a mangled foot. He was no longer out in the woods, scenting prey to bring home to feed and nourish the warm body of the woman he loved. He thrust his knife deep into the carcass and heard a high-pitched gasp.
He turned to see Shelly, his front-of-store assistant at The Chop Shop. Her bone straight hair hung down on either side of her round face. She had the features of an owl; large eyes, long nose, and a tiny mouth with lips so thin they looked like a single line. Shelly also had a habit of dressing in ruffles which reminded Rory of a bird’s feathers. She spooked easily and, when her body shuddered, it looked as though her feathers had been ruffled.
“Yeah,” Rory demanded.
He knew his tone was gruff, but he also knew that Shelly had a sweet spot for him. He kept his attitude sour to discourage her. It wasn’t hard; his days were all bitter since the incident that left him half a man.
When Shelly didn’t answer, he turned back to her. Looking more closely at the woman, he frowned. There were red splotches on her face and dark circles around her eyes.
“Were you in a fight?” he asked.
“No.” Her tone was indignant, but then her thin lips curved up in what Rory imagined was a smile. “I got a makeover. A little blush on the cheeks to give me a healthy glow and liner to bring out my eyes. Do you like it?”
“You look like you’ve been in a fistfight,” he said. “And lost.”
Shelly ruffled. Her cheeks sagged and her mouth gaped, which brought her looks back to what they normally appeared to be.
Rory turned to the fresh carcass and readied his blade. “Any special orders?”
Shelly brought up the pad that she used to take orders at the counter. Most butchers stood at the front of the house as a matter of customer service. They’d be there to answer client questions and give suggestions.
Rory didn’t have the patience or countenance for that. Not even before the incident had slowed his movements and dampened his spirits. He preferred to hack into the meat, load up the cases with the most preferred cuts, and take requests for anything else.
Most of his clients ordered cuts of ribeye, strips, and tenderloins. There was always a call for filet mignon. But some were a little crafty, going against the grain and offering Rory a chance to flex his cleaver by ordering Zabuton and sirloin flap and tri-tip.
“June Collinson asks you to completely ‘denude’ her cuts.” Shelly’s tone got surlier with each order ticket. “Clary Bignam requests that you ‘leave the bone in’ in her meat. Tracy Alman asks that you tie up her order of meat ‘real tight’.”
Rory got to work filling the offers. He paid the suggestive requests no heed. He wasn’t stupid. He knew these women—wolves, humans, and fae—were all interested in taking a bite out of him. Women had always chased after him. He was an alpha wolf, after all.
He just didn’t care to be caught any longer.
There was only one woman he’d ever chased after. Only one woman he’d ever wanted to offer up his meat to. He’d had her in his claws, but after he’d been injured, she’d rejected him. That had hurt more than the wound to his foot.
Rory couldn’t even tout that he’d been wounded by a bear or a mountain lion while he was out hunting. Though he had been hunting at the time of the incident, the beast that had felled him had been his weak, cowardly imbecile of a baby brother.
Rory looked down at the carcass he was carving to find he’d ruined the cut. He sighed. At least it was better than taking a chunk out of Jordan. Marginally better.
He looked up at the sound of the hustle and bustle as the afternoon set in. Human women were lining up, just getting off of their day jobs and coming to the shop for the main ingredient for their evening meals.
Most of the women weren’t looking at the menu. Their heads were craned to the back to get a look at him. His looks aside, he knew that the idea of his wound only piqued the women’s interest. Many women liked to believe they’d be the one with the right touch to heal the wounded animal that he was.
Rory wasn’t wounded. Rory was feral. And so he paid no attention to the eager mascaraed and blushed eyes that sought him out. Like any rejected wolf, his heart remained with the woman he knew was his one true mate.
And so he got back to work, ignoring the ache in his foot as well as the one in his heart. The bell over the door dinged again. It wasn’t the tingling sound that caught Rory’s attention, it was the demand that rang out a moment later.
“Sorry, ma’am, but you can’t go back there.”
Rory heard Shelly’s voice grow closer. Her voice sounded higher than it normally did. He looked up and noted that it was higher because she was closer to him than she normally got.
Shelly tried to shield her small body as another woman rounded her. This woman looked older. But she probably wasn’t as old as she looked. The way that she dressed, the way that she carried herself, made her appear so. She was one of those women that appeared to not care about her looks and dressed to dim her attractiveness. One of those intellectuals who thought brains were more important than beauty.
“Excuse me,” the woman said.
Rory knew that she spoke to him. He wasn’t interested in whatever she was selling. He knew that the best way to get rid of unwanted visitors was to simply ignore them.
“Excuse me,” she repeated. “Are you Rory?”
Rory kept his head down. He hacked at the meat, roughly so that the blood would spurt. But this woman didn’t give the flying innards a moment’s glance.
“If you want to order something you talk to me.” Shelly tried to insinuate herself between Rory and this new woman. “Only I talk to him.”
“I’m not here for meat. My name is Rhetta. I’m your brother’s fiancée.”
Rory’s hand had been poised to strike the carcass. Instead, his gaze rose to meet the woman’s and his knife clattered to the floor.