She knows why I flipped, but she doesn’t knowwhy.
What can I say?
Because that name belongs to the man who took you from me?
Because hearing it come from your mouth feels like watching you choose him all over again even if I know now that it wasn’t your choice?
Because I killed him?
Because the man you call ‘husband’ is a fraud and a murder and nowhere near good enough for you?
I can’t say any of that so, instead, I say nothing.
Her expression tightens. “See? That’s what I mean.”
“What?”
“When I ask questions about you, not me, you constantly shut down.”
“I don’t?—”
“Youdo.” She gestures around the room. “You’d rather come in here and beat your hands to a bloody pulp than just tell me what you’re thinking. I promise you, Dallas, I’m not as fragile as you think I am. I’m a big girl. This… this is an adjustment for both of us. If you’d rather I find somewhere else to go?—”
What? “No.” I clear my throat before I scare her again. “I mean, no. This is your home.Ourhome. I messed up, baby. That’s all. I had a bad day at work and then you were making the day so much better, but I… it’s a ‘me’ problem, okay? Not a ‘you’ problem. And I’ll be better. You want me to open my trap? To be honest with you? I will. I… Iwill.”
Does she believe me?
“Luce?”
She holds up one finger, then disappears into the hall. A minute later, she reappears holding a washcloth she had dampened.
Once she’s standing in front of me again, she wiggles her fingers at me. “Hands, Dal. Now.”
Reluctantly, I take my bloody hands out of my pocket. They look even worse than I imagine, but after only a tiny flinch, Lucy bows her head and gets to work, dabbing the cuts until they stop bleeding
During her trip to the bathroom, she also palmed a tiny tube of antibiotic ointment she had found in the medicine cabinet. Once the blood stops, she uncaps it, using her thumb to gently cover each of the cuts and scrapes with the ointment before blowing on it, helping it dry.
“Thanks, baby. I appreciate it.”
“Mm.” She finishes looking over her handiwork, ghosting her fingers over my newly shiny knuckles. “Shouldn’t even scar.” Then, before I can realize what she’s doing, she turns one of my hands over, tapping the Order brand covering my palm. “Not like that did.”
I just nod.
She peers up at me. “I still want to know. What happened here? What is this?”
I go still as she waits for an answer.
This isn’t the first time she drew my attention to the sigil burned into my palm. The Order’s symbol, each Owed gets it branded in the center of their palm during the August ceremony after they turn eighteen. The Offerings can be Claimed during that same ceremony, and the Used get their brands on the side of their necks, while the male members are marked on their inner palms.
It hurts like a fucking bitch. The healing process sucks, too, and after that, getting a tattoo is a cakewalk. But every time Lucylooked up at me with questions in her eyes after running her thumb over the scarred skin, I brushed her off. I told her it was something I did when I was a dumb kid. That we had this stupid club for all my boys and each of us burned each other with an old branding iron on a dare.
It’s mostly true. The mark is done with a branding iron, the Order is a boys club, and I was only eighteen when I got my brand. Did I tell her it was because the Order was really a secret society and that we’ve ruled over Harmony Heights and beyond for more than two centuries, brokering deals in backrooms, guiding from the shadows, and ending anyone who gets in our way?
No, but from the look on her face, she has some idea that that might be her case—and she’s asking me about it right after I promised that I would be more honest and open with her.
You know what? Props to Lucy because I fell right into that one, didn’t I?
Now, I don’t want to say that she had an ulterior motive when she offered to wash my knuckles, but if she did? She played me, and, God, that was so fucking sexy, I can’t help but grip her chin and give her a kiss.
