Page 86 of Judge's Mercy

“But he told me?—”

“He lied, Myla. He lied because he liked you and felt protective over you. So don’t give me that bullshit about being alone. He was there for you no matter how nasty you were to him. He’s like the Myla-whisperer and could see through all your insults and understand how you were feeling with each jab you took at him.”

“I didn’t know.”

Her expression softens and she rests a hand on my leg. “I know, babes, but it’s time to pull your head out of your ass. The only reason I left you alone was because I knew he was taking care of you. And if you just opened your damn eyes for two minutes, you’d see it for yourself.”

“I did.” Knowing that’s not entirely true, I correct myself. “Eventually I did because I fell in love with him.”

“Thank you, Jesus.” She dramatically raises her hands in the air, making me chuckle. A comfortable silence falls over us after that, giving me time to collect my thoughts.

“He doesn’t want me to finish the list,” I whisper.

“Please tell me you aren’t thinking about continuing with that insanity.”

“I need to. It’s the only way I can move on.”

“No, it’s not. Throw the piece of paper away, call Judge, and tell him he’s more important than any name on a list, and then live. Maybe try to bring some fun back to your life.”

I take a minute to imagine how it would feel to throw the list away and choose Judge. The only emotion I feel is regret. My eyes well with tears. “I can’t, Tinleigh. I wouldn’t be good for anyone because I’d always be thinking about those men walking around and hurting other kids and women.”

“It’s not your responsibility to rid the world of assholes. Besides, the second you take one out, another pops up. They never go away.”

“At least I can say I contributed,” I say.

She huffs. “You’re unbelievable. You have the entire world open to you and a man who would move mountains for you, and still, it’s not enough. Meanwhile, Judge is probably getting kicked out of the club as we speak because he chose you over his brothers. Not once, but twice.”

“What?” My chest tightens.

“It’s the first rule of being a biker. The club comes first.”

“We were both going to tell you our secrets just as soon as I was done.”

“Wait. What’s Judge’s secret?” Tinleigh’s head tilts, and I slap a hand over my mouth. “Tell me.”

“I can’t. It’s too personal. However much he decides to share should be his choice.”

“God, you two are quite the pair.” She stands, shaking her head. “I hope you realize how rare it is to find someone who matches you in every way before it’s too late.”

“I just need a little more time.”

“The thing is, he’s here now, and by the time you’re ready, the damage might be done, and he won’t trust you enough to fall again.” She tugs on my blanket-covered toe. “Tigger will stay in the living room indefinitely. Satyr and Dutch are working on a plan to deal with the guy you tried to take out because he’ll eventually come after you in order to keep his secrets.”

“Tell them not to bother. I got this,” I say, even though my arm and fingertips are bandaged, I’m on a concussion protocol—again—and I’m covered in scrapes and bruises. Apparently, pride and delusion are my top toxic traits.

“Let’s maybe use this time to reflect on our choices, ’mkay?”

She doesn’t give me a chance to retort before she’s out the door. I listen as Lucky says something to Tigger that I can’t quite make out but probably follows the line of, “If anything happens to Myla, I’ll rip your balls off and feed them to you.” That’s my guess, anyway. Then I hear my front door closing and the beep of the lock engaging.

I’m almost relieved until Tigger pops his head in, all goofy smile and bright eyes. “Need anything? Maybe some water, or I could come hang out with you?” He lifts his chin. “I mean, if you want.”

I haven’t had a lot of interactions with the ginger prospect, but Judge often talks about what a good kid he is. He’s probably older than me, but he still has a baby face that couldn’t grow a beard if it wanted to. He’s tall and all limbs, but I can tell by the definition in his bicep that he must be doing something to build muscle. His hair is orange-red, longish on top and short on the sides, with a slight curl on the ends that keeps it out of his eyes. He has at least eight million freckles on translucent white skin. Though he’s not my type, I can tell he’s one of those guys who gets the girls because of his goofy, golden retriever personality.

“I’m good. Thank you,” I say, and his face falls, making him look like a kicked puppy. I roll my eyes and pat the other side of the bed.

“Really?” He lights up like a kid at Christmas and practically bounces over to the bed. Making himself perfectly comfortable, he crawls under the blanket and sits with his back against the headboard before reaching over and grabbing Ryder. “Your kitten kicks ass.”

Said kitten might hate my sister, but he loves Tigger, rubbing his little face on his hand to encourage more pets. I’m simultaneously comfortable with the prospect and taken aback because I assumed I’d forever be standoffish with the opposite sex. Looks like Judge was right about him.

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