still have to do with me bumping my head?”
His silence is the only confirmation I need. “Tongue,” I brush the scruff along his face with the back of my hand. “You can’t do that to yourself. I don’t blame you. I blame your uncle.”
“It isn’t about that. Well, it’s not just about that,” he corrects himself. “It’s about all of me. How fucked up I am. My fucked-up way of thinking and feeling, and that isn’t going to change. I want you to myself. The world can burn in hell for all I care. That’s who I am.”
“And I love you for who you are. Because I don’t want the world, Tongue. I only want you. I want the most fucked-up parts of you because that’s what I love most. You think I care if others want me or look at me? The only attention I want is yours.”
“Yeah?” he questions on a relieved exhale. “Why?”
“Why?”
He taps his head and then his heart. “I’m not right, Comet. You don’t think I don’t see that? I’m not like everyone else. I need blood on my hands to sleep most nights. How does that make me worthy of you? How do I know next time won’t just be a bump on the head? But worse?”
My hands move up and over his arms, feeling the hard muscle of his biceps flex under my touch. His forearms are strong, and his veins are protruding all the way down to the wrist. My fingers make their way home between his and hold onto him tight.
“I’ll get my hands bloody with you and when we get home, I’ll help wash it off. Blood doesn’t scare me, but not having you? That does. You have to stop running with the ideas you think of, Tongue. That if I’m hurt, it’s your fault, or someone is going to come and love me in ways you can’t. You love me in all the ways that matter to me. Get out of your head, or you’re going to drive yourself crazy.”
He takes my hand in his and brings it to his lips, kissing me softly. I stare at the hands that have caused so much pain and torment and been drenched in so much blood. They are the same hands that have caressed me in bed as he makes love to me, the same hands that protect me, and the same hands that hold me.
“Knock, knock! Sorry to interrupt.”
I turn to see an older man standing in the doorway. Tongue immediately clears his throat and masks the emotions on his face. Those emotions are for my eyes only. Only I get to see the side the world will never have the privilege to see.
“Mercy, what are you doing here?” Tongue asks, his shoulders thrusting back and his tone suspicious.
Oh, Mercy. Right. I’ve seen him briefly, but we have never met.
I step around Tongue and kiss the side of his cheek. “I’m going to go in the other room to look at paint samples. I’ll leave you to it.”
“Wait,” Mercy says, lifting a finger to gesture ‘one minute’ as he dashes out the door. “This was wrapped and ready at the clubhouse. I was going to the hardware store across the street anyway, so I told Reaper I’d bring it. He said you wanted it to come here.” Mercy’s eyes flicker to me. His black brows pinch together, which are such a contrast to his silver hair. He leans the package against the primed wall and eyes the room. “Place is looking good.”
“Thank you,” I say, Mercy’s eyes falling to me again.
I lower my sight to the floor and stare at my feet, watching my toes wiggle under the material of my Converse sneakers. He’s making me uneasy.
“You’re Daphne, right? I only saw you briefly one time, quick, you were on you way out somewhere.”
“Yeah. Hi,” I greet, and he holds out his hand to me for me to shake.
Tongue slaps it down and growls. “No touching.”
“Right,” he says. “I’m not trying to step on your toes, man, or cross lines. I wanted to check out the place and properly introduce myself since I’m going to be around more. Daphne and I don’t see each other much—”
“Good,” Tongue states. “You don’t need to see her a lot.”
I hide my smile, but Mercy doesn’t get the picture. He continues to stare at me, and not only is it making me uncomfortable, Tongue is getting edgy.
“I’ll go. I’m meeting Whistler and One. If