Tongue (Ruthless Kings MC #8) - K.L. Savage Page 0,74
that? It makes no sense.”
“Business doesn’t have to make sense when the person holding all the power wants something. And if we don’t fight, I have a feeling he will kill her or take her. Unless ye can kill his goons at the same time, is it something ye want to risk?” Skirt looks around at the carnage and whistles. “Damn.”
I spare another glance at Daphne, who is trembling in the arms of a man I want to add to my list to kill.
All I wanted to do was marry Daphne.
“Sorry, brother. I’m only doing what is best for ye,” Skirt tells me right as he throws his professional UFC fucking fist through the air, slamming the brass knuckles against my jaw.
“Wayne!” Daphne screams my name, my real name out of fear as I fall into the fence, becoming someone else’s victim for a change.
My own brother.
“Wayne? Shite, how did I not know that?” Skirt nails me again in the stomach. “How did I not know anything about yer past?” he says with a bit more resentment than I thought he’d have. He hits my jaw with his other hand. A smooth uppercut to the jaw has blood spewing out of my mouth. “Ye say we are family, ye call me yer brother, but I know nothing about ye,” he says bitterly, kneeing me in the stomach next. “I would have fought ye demons with ye, Tongue.” He grips me by the thick of the hair, yanking my head back.
I know I look weak in front of Daphne, but I know I’m not weak. I’ve won a thousand wars, but this battle, this is a defeat I deserve to feel.
“Fight me,” Skirt sneers, throwing me across the ring. I slide through my fallen opponent’s blood, soaking my jeans and clogging my fingernails.
“No,” I croak, spitting, and feeling the side of my mouth swelling. No one has ever gotten the upper hand on me.
But this one time, this one time, I’m not going to fight.
“Fight me!” he roars, slamming his foot against my ribs, but I know it isn’t as hard as he can kick or hit. He is going easy on me. “Why?”
“Because” I spit again. “Because I deserve this.”
“Ye don’t,” Skirt chokes, gripping me by the back of the head again. “Sarah is okay. Reaper is pissed. He wants his punishment, but come home, Tongue.”
“Not until he says.”
Skirt sighs in anger, curling his lip in displeasure from my answer, then knees me in the face. The crowd roars when their favorite Scotsman pours blood. When Skirt fights, he always wins.
Always.
“Why?” he asks, again, slamming down against the dirt. I inhale a cloud of dust, choking, tasting the earth sticking to the inside of my mouth. The grit of the sand lines my gums. He slams his fist across my stomach again and Daphne cries my name. “We would have helped ye. We would have taught ye how to read and write. We would have—’
“Don’t,” I sneer, pushing him off me. I stagger to my feet. I point a finger at him, nearly crying again. I don’t like crying. It confuses me. A man like me does not feel that deeply. I don’t know how. “Don’t you dare talk to me about my Uncle or what you saw in my drawings. You invaded my privacy.” I throw my fist in the air next, slamming my knuckles against the side of his face. “Those were my secrets. That was my pain.” I elbow him in the gut, take him by the back of the neck, turn around, and sling him over my shoulder, throwing him onto the ground in a pool of blood.
It splashes around us. Half of his face is covered in blood reminding me of a true warrior. His kilt is ruined, and the silver of his sword is swirling with red.
“That’s it. Get mad, Tongue. Let’s see how crazy ye can get.” Skirt wipes the blood off his mouth, flashing his white teeth at me.
I crack my neck, holding in the need to snap Skirt in half. The restraint is hard. He has no idea how badly I want to break, but the sane side of me knows Skirt is family and we are being forced to do this to each other.
I pick him up by his neck the edges of my vision blurring, the madness winning. All it will take is a quick flick of my wrist and he’ll be dead.