Page 18

BUTCHER’S BLOCK

Blake

Blake’s eyes were hurting again—the left more than the right.

The blue one. Letting out an earth-shatteringly long sigh, he opened the car door, sank into the driver’s seat and turned on the heaters.

Pressing the heels of his palms into his eye sockets did little to dull the ache, but it did relieve the pressure.

Being one of three Detective Sergeants within Major Crime was not as glamorous or exciting as the public might assume. In general, it involved driving long distances, going to a lot of unpleasant places, and witnessing all the abhorrent things people could do to one another.

Certainly, keeping a handle on the Child Protection Unit had been unpleasant at times . A lot of times, actually. But trying to manage a team of wet-behind-the-ears detectives straight out of training school? Absolute fucking carnage.

Blake had spent most of the night fending off calls again, with only the lingering taste of apple pie and the darkness of his living room to prevent his patience from snapping altogether.

Although only thirty-one years old, he felt like an absolute dinosaur compared to the wayward, not quite fully matured adults being churned out of headquarters. All fresh-faced, inexperienced and without a modicum of common sense between them. He had never felt older.

Looking in the rearview mirror, he ran a hand through his untidy hair, grimacing at the sheer number of greys popping through the short bristle of his undercut.

His alpha father had lost his colour early in life, but Blake had held out hope of inheriting his omega father’s gloriously dark locks.

Still, he had the wavy thickness and decent hairline, at least.

Needless to say, Blake was feeling neither glamorous nor excited as he pulled the car around to Pember’s front door that morning.

Twisting the heating dial up to max, he held his fingers up to the vents and waited for the sharp sting of poor circulation to fade. George snored loudly from the back seat, totally and utterly unaware of the world going to shit around him.

“You lazy fucker,” he murmured, reaching back to press a thumb into the soft pad of George’s paw. The corgi only turned over with a loud grunt.

The clatter of Pember’s front door made Blake look up. A piece of toast hung from his mouth as he pulled a black waterproof coat over his shoulders. At least he was wearing a coat, and not just a T-shirt and a pair of tiny black pants that clung to his?—

Sliding his eyes back to the centre console, Blake turned down the music that was blasting from the speakers and set the heating to a more reasonable temperature.

He rolled his neck to work out a strip of tension and hoped that the pathologist was running on time.

He’d spent more than enough hours inside the bitterly cold morgue, and wasn’t keen to freeze his arse off for longer than was absolutely necessary.

Still, the dead didn’t call at three o’clock in the fucking morning asking if they could claim a McDonalds milkshake on expenses, he supposed.

“Morning,” Pember said, his tone overly bright for the time of day.

The sun was only just appearing over the horizon, yet the omega looked fresh-faced as he slid into the passenger seat. Blake gave a curt nod in response.

On face value, he might have assumed Pember was just another wayward newbie looking to make an impression.

But, in the days since they’d met, he’d seen the omega’s green eyes drop into glassy despondency more than once.

He’d been unfair in telling him as much the previous night, and he was beginning to regret it.

Blake was quickly realising that Pember had one of those faces that couldn’t contain itself. His expressions swung wildly depending on his emotions, making for a rather interesting viewing experience. Blake found he was quickly becoming addicted to testing those expressions.

The velvety sweet scent of the omega had totally blindsided him that day in the woods, and again in the lab. Perhaps he was being a fucking sap, but Pember did smell remarkably similar to the chocolate shop at the end of his parents’ street.

“Morning,” Blake replied, awkwardly clearing his throat as he reached to turn the music down even more.

“O-oh, don’t feel you need to do that. It’s your car,” Pember said, shaking his head.

Blake let out a breath and rested his hand on the gear stick. “Wouldn’t want to wake Val.” He smirked. Not that the old alpha had any inclination of what was going on outside of her tiny bubble.

Pember snickered, his straight teeth peeping out from behind his top lip. “That’s a low blow,” he said, clipping the seat belt into place.

Blake touched the tip of his tongue to a fang and slid the car into gear. “She’s not here to defend herself, so I’ll take my chances.”

Pember huffed and crossed his arms. “I’m going to tell her you’re making fun of her.”

Blake bit the inside of his cheek to stop himself from grinning.

George let out a loud snore as they pulled out of Bell Lane, and Pember turned, reaching through the gap in the chairs to stroke his ears. His cheek grazed Blake’s shoulder, the minty, clean scent of his hair tickling his nostrils again.

When it was clear that even tummy rubs and chin tickles weren’t going to wake George, Pember gave up and huddled back into the heated seat.

Blake looked at him from the corner of his eye, noticing he’d slid a thin black headband through his hair to push the deep umber tendrils out of his face.

It caused it to curl around his ears, revealing a small freckle imprinted on the corner of his jaw, and another close to his Adam’s apple.

Blake swallowed, turning his gaze back to the road. “Did she like the apple pie?” he said, voice cracking ever so slightly.

A small smile tugged at the edge of Pember’s mouth. “Of course. Why else do you think she let me clean?”

“I thought it was your omega mumbo jumbo.”

Pember’s nostrils flared as he looked up. “I can assure you, I possess no mumbo and even less jumbo.”

Blake shrugged. “Perhaps it was the headscarf. Reminded her of the nineteen fifties,” he said, shooting him a teasing half smile.

“I’d just washed my hair and didn’t want to wash it again. You saw the amount of soot. Not to mention the state of the oven.”

He had seen the soot, and the oven, and the stacks upon stacks of unopened post littering the living room. He’d tried many times to convince her to let him get a cleaner, but she wouldn’t have it.

“I told you she likes you,” Blake said, voice soft. “That was kind, by the way.”

Their eyes met for a brief second, some kind of shared understanding passing between them.

Then, Pember’s gaze drifted from Blake’s face to his neck, and down to his chest. Blake thought for one blindingly unwholesome moment that the omega was checking him out, but quickly realised he was looking at the heart rate monitor creating a small protrusion from under his white shirt.

He debated telling Pember it was a super-secret recording device just to watch his dark eyebrows pull up in surprise, but chose instead to clear his throat and make it awkward. Pember flushed and quickly looked down at his hands.

As the residential streets widened into the dual carriageway, a comfortable silence fell over the two of them. Blake drummed his fingers across the top of the steering wheel, the aggressive rhythm of the music going some way to focusing his overfull mind.

Pember’s foot tapped along. Blake hadn’t anticipated that the omega would like Deftones, but as his gaze flicked to him, he realised his hands were sliding up and down the seat belt like he was playing guitar.

“Do you play?” he asked, cocking a brow.

Pember coughed and stilled his movements. “Oh… um, just the cello. Haven’t played in ages, and was never any good.”

Blake hummed. “Why not?”

“I focus too much on the technicalities, instead of feeling the music,” he replied, rubbing the back of his neck.

“I mean, why haven’t you played in ages?”

“O-oh. I used to play with my sister. I only really tried because of her.” His eyes turned glassy again, so Blake dropped it.

“Chichima Zabu is the pathologist working with us today. She’s probably one of the best this side of the city; really thorough.”

Pember nodded, expression relaxing as he returned to tapping his feet. “That’s good. I’m really nervous, to be honest. I’m worried I’ll mess everything up.”

“Don’t be. Duncan’s coming, and Chichi’s really approachable. She’ll guide you through everything. And besides, I’ll be watching your every move and judging every decision you make.” His mouth tipped up into a smirk.

Pember scoffed. “ Thanks ,” he said, tapping a knuckle to the back of Blake’s hand. “Are you coming with us or are we meeting you there?”

Blake swallowed, the tiny touch making his inner wolf stand to attention. “I’ll meet you there. The boss wants me to prepare a team briefing for this evening. Depending on what’s found at the PM, we might be working through the night.”

Pember frowned but didn’t question it.

“And bring Vaporub. For the smell.”

High Enfield Mortuary was just as frigid as the night before, and Blake was alone as he waited for everyone else to arrive. Lily, whilst not as bad as her colleagues, was still a chatty motherfucker, and she’d chewed his ear off for the eight hours they’d spent waiting for the body to be booked in.

He was early as always, and found himself pacing up and down the long, brightly lit corridor.

His footsteps echoed, the tap, tap, tap of his tan brogues bouncing off the metal hatches lining the walls.

It was an eerie thing to be surrounded by the dead, and he was well and truly outnumbered on that front.

Reading the details on each of the hatches, he slowed his pace.

‘ Daniel Cornell, 56, alpha. ’

‘ Hilary O’Shea, 78, beta. ’

‘ Angelika Diaz, 46, beta. ’

‘ Mohammed Hussain, 81, omega. ’

‘ Brian Fallon, 62, alpha. ’