Page 77 of Lady and the Butcher

Later, he let me doze while he took a call on the balcony. I watched him through the glass—barefoot, phone to his ear, the tattoo at his neck dark against the light. His stance was calm, but the air bent around him. Whoever was on the other end had their world rearranged in a few sentences.

A knock at the door snapped me upright. Atticus was inside before the second one. He pressed a finger to my lips.

Silent.

He opened the door to a man with a split lip and panic in his eyes. The man’s words tumbled out fast, too quiet for me to hear, but I caught the fear. Atticus’s face went still. He stepped into the hall, door closing sharp behind him.

I sat frozen on the bed, heart pounding. I told myself not to eavesdrop, but I couldn’t help it. I pressed my ear to the door. Muffled voices, Atticus low and even, the other man pleading. Then the sound of something—flesh hitting wall, a grunt. My body went cold.

The silence after was worse.

When the door opened, Atticus stood there, expression unreadable, blood on his knuckles. My stomach lurched.

He saw the way I looked at him. He stepped forward, slow, like I was a skittish animal he refused to chase. “It’s handled.”

“What was that?” My voice cracked.

“Noise,” he said. His gaze softened, but it didn’t hide the steel underneath. “Not your burden.”

“You hit him.”

“I reminded him,” Atticus said. “There’s a difference.”

I shook my head, breath shaky. “Do you even hear yourself?”

His hand cupped my face, thumb stroking slow across my cheek. “I hear you. That’s why I’ll never let it touch you.”

The words steadied me and scared me more at once.

This was becoming too much.

That night, lying in his arms with the river breathing outside, I couldn’t stop thinking about the mothers I worked with. Women in labor, their faces lit with exhaustion and triumph. The little boys I’d watched draw their first breaths, red fists clenched, already fighting. Did their mothers hope they’d grow into men like Atticus—men who could hold the world still with one hand, who inspired both terror and devotion?

And the little girls. Would their mothers want them to grow into women like me? Women who built something with their bare hands, then handed pieces of themselves over to a man who could darken a room just by standing in it?

The questions gnawed at me.

Atticus stirred, hand sliding over my stomach. “What are you thinking, Lady?”

“That I’m not sure I’m the woman mothers want their daughters to be.”

His mouth brushed my temple. “You’re exactly the woman I want you to be.”

“And if that’s not enough?”

“Then they don’t matter,” he said. “Only you do.”

But I wasn’t so sure. Doubt was creeping in.

In the early hours, another knock came. This one louder. Atticus moved fast, gun in hand before I could blink. My blood ran cold.

I hadn’t even known he had a gun. It made sense, I guess. I just hadn’t thought about it.

He cracked the door. Two men stood there, shoulders squared, eyes hard. Words hissed between them, low and urgent. One of the men looked past him, saw me in the shadows, and smiled—a sharp, wrong thing.

Atticus shifted instantly, blocking the line of sight. “Not here.” His voice was steel.

They argued. I couldn’t catch the words, but the air vibrated with threat. Finally, Atticus stepped into the hall, door closing behind him.