Tongue's Target (Ruthless Kings MC Las Vegas #10) - K.L. Savage Page 0,3

Tongue would do anything for me, and that brings me comfort too. “No, I’m okay. I promise. It was a dream. I think it was a dream. I don’t know if my mind is playing tricks on me or not.”

He places the knife down on the nightstand and slides his arms under me, holding me to his chest. “I think you’re perfect the way you are,” he says, sliding a finger down my cheek.

I can’t help but believe him, especially when he looks at me like I’m the only person in the world. I lean my head against his chest and sigh, replaying the dream over and over again in my head. I jump when the gunshot rings throughout my mind, as if it just happened in front of me.

“You’re okay,” Tongue whispers, gliding his hand through my long brown hair. “I’m not ever going to let anything happen to you, Comet. Not ever. You’re safe with me.”

The deep tone of his voice vibrates his chest, slightly tickling my cheek. I let out a deep exhale and snuggle into him further. I wish I could crawl inside him and stay safe forever.

“Want to talk about it?” he asks after a few minutes of being in silence.

I’m staring at the stacks of books all around the room and smile when I think about how Tongue only has these books because of me. He doesn’t care that he can’t read or write, he just wants the books because I like them. How lucky am I?

He will know how to read soon, though. Every night we sit in bed and I teach him how to pronounce certain words and write. We are starting small and working our way up. It’s hard to learn things like this when you’re an adult. As a child, you’re introduced to it your entire life through school. As an adult, there isn’t that same structure, so it becomes more difficult.

You couldn’t tell with Tongue. He’s so brilliant, and he doesn’t even know it.

But I do.

He is catching on quick; it won’t be long before he is reading by himself or writing letters. No one gives him the credit he deserves, but I always will. He is everything and so much more.

“I think I need to see Doc,” I whisper to him as my heart pounds in my chest.

“Hey, why do you think that?” He flips me around without effort until I’m straddling his lap. My hands land on his bare chest, his skin warm under my palms.

He’s beautiful.

I look down and with my fingers trace the tattoo on his stomach that says, ‘Unscarred’. It makes me shake my head. He’s one of the most scarred people I know. “What’s this tattoo mean?” I ask, not wanting to talk about me just yet.

“I want to believe that every time I look in the mirror, I’m not completely fucked up,” he states with a shrug of his left shoulder. “I know it’s a contradiction, because look at me—” he says, spreading his arms wide. “I’m scarred all over.”

I lay one hand on his heart and the other on his cheek. “I’ll have to disagree. You have the purest form of love I’ve ever seen. This,” I press against his chest, the beat drumming against my palm steady and strong. “This managed to survive untouched.” I stare into his rich brown eyes and watch as he tilts his head. The expression on his face softens, the wrinkles around his eyes disappear, and a faint pink blush tints his cheeks.

He doesn’t take praise well. He isn’t used to it.

“We know that isn’t true,” he says, glancing away from me, suddenly shy.

Tongue is a contradiction. There is no doubt about that. He’s a brutal killer. Obsessive. Intense. But in intimate moments like this, I manage to see the glimpse of the innocence inside him.

“I’ve lived to experience your love, Wayne. I think out of all people, I’d know.” It isn’t often I call him by his first name, but sometimes when I want what I’m saying to really stick, I make sure not to call him Tongue.

He wipes above the top of my brow, then brings his thumb to his mouth and sucks it between his lips. Tongue moans as his eyes flutter shut. “Even your sweat is sweet, Comet.”

“Now I know you’re lying.” I play with the strands of hair curling along his nape with my fingers.

His eyes snap open. The abyss of those chocolate eyes swirls with anger as his nostrils