Page 80 of The Rust in Her Hair

"Oh my god," I whisper as I watch my two mates throw their full weight into each other, in almost near silence. There’s no yelling or growling, only the scuff and squeak of boots fighting for purchase on the hardwood, punctuated by a few soft grunts.

Adrian's got a few inches on Nico, a longer reach, all that ropey carpenter's strength, but Nico doesn't give up any ground. Not an inch.

Nico plants his boots and takes everything Adrian throws at him, absorbing each surge and shoving right back. It’s like Nico's a wall Adrian can't get around.

Still standing next to the front door, Mack stands with his mouth open, watching the two of them wrestle.

"Mine," Adrian snarls and shoves against Nico, and the two of them stagger, boots skidding. A lamp rocks on the side table.

"Mack," Nico hisses through clenched teeth, the command strained. "Help me."

Near the door, Mack finally shakes himself out of it. He blinks, then he rushes forward. He gets a thick arm banded around Adrian from the other side, hauling backward.

"C'mon, Adrian." Mack's voice comes out quiet and unsteady. Honestly, he sounds shaken, but he’s holding on. "C'mon now. Move."

Between the two of them, they wrestle Adrian away from the mouth of the hallway and start muscling him toward the kitchen, boots dragging, Adrian's soft snarls rolling continuously the whole way.

I hate that he’s not speaking.

"Owen." Nico grits my name out over his shoulder, straining against Adrian's weight. "The garage. Get the door open."

I'm already scrambling up off the floor. I shove my glasses back into place, shoes skidding on the carpet as I cut around their bulky bodies and into the kitchen. Behind me Adrian snarls and the boots scuff harder, the three of them a slow, grunting mass fighting toward me.

The garage door is at the back of the kitchen. I grab the knob, twist, and haul it wide, then flatten myself against the wall to clear the way.

"Got it," I say as they make their way through the kitchen.

Nico and Mack wrestle Adrian through the doorway, all that thrashing muscle folding sideways through the narrow frame. Adrian gets one hand braced on the jamb, and Mack peels it loose. Then they're through, down the two steps, and I hear the heavy scrape of them getting him to the far wall.

"Stay on him!" Nico barks.

I follow them as far as the top of the garage steps and stop. Nico doesn't want me any closer, and God knows I don't want to see Adrian like this. But I can't make myself leave either. From here I can see all of it, the low animal snarl coming out of him with nothing human left in it, and I stand there and watch because I can't do anything else.

Standing in the doorway, I watch my mates struggle.

Nico's got Adrian pinned face-first against the workbench, his forearm jammed between the alpha's shoulder blades, all his weight bearing down. Adrian bucks under him, boots scrabbling on the concrete. Nico rides it out, jaw set, not giving an inch.

"Rope," he grunts. "By the saw."

Mack's already moving. He grabs a coil of nylon rope off a hook on the pegboard, the kind Adrian uses to lash lumber to the truck, and gets to work. He drags one of Adrian's wrists behind his back, then the other, wrapping them tight while Nico holds him down. Mack's hands are fast and sure, throwing loops and cinching them, and I realize with a small sick lurch that neither of them is being gentle about it.

"Don’t hurt him," I whisper.

Adrian snarls, low and continuous, twisting against the hold. A word breaks out of him, mangled and thick.

"Mine."

"I know, brother." Mack yanks the last knot tight. "I know. Sit tight for me."

They haul Adrian back off the bench and get him down onto the floor, back against the far wall. Mack loops the rope from his bound wrists around the thick leg of the workbench and cinches it there.

The bench is a heavy old thing, its top buried under Adrian's own tools, solid enough that it doesn't so much as shift when the alpha throws his weight against the ropes.

Adrian wrenches at it and the rope pulls taut against the wood, holding. A sound tears out of him that makes my stomach turn over, part growl, part something almost grieving.

And then it's done.

He's contained.