Page 4 of Tusk's Fury

Tusk’s always been kind and patient, but I know that if I’m ever going to be truly accepted by the old ladies, I’ve got to get my behavior under control. I don’t want the man I love to be a laughingstock among the brothers because he’s with the club girl who always made trouble. I’m trying, I really am, but Silver knows how to push my buttons.

I’d consider talking to the old ladies about how they handle stuff, but because I’m not a proper old lady, they see me as an outsider—apart from Clara, who’s Tusk’s ex-sister-in-law, she’s been nice to me. I even bought a self-help book to help me with that issue. I talk about some of it as we eat, and Tusk is very supportive.

We’ve been daydreaming about this night ever since we got together, so I know what the plan is. We’re going to stay for a few hours and enjoy the party, shoot some pool, and go easy on the drinking. Then, the plan is to ride up the East Coast on his newly tricked-out bike and get a fancy hotel for the night. I even bought him a gift to celebrate being patched in.

Once we finish eating, I shove our plates to the side, pull his gift out of my purse, and slide it across the table.

“What’s all this, sweetheart?” he asks.

“I got you a little something to mark the occasion. Let’s call it a patching-in present.”

He reaches for the neatly wrapped black and gold gift. “You didn’t have to do that. I know you don’t have much cash lying around now that you’re working a day job.”

“Shush and open your gift. I spent a long time trying to figure out what to get you. I hope you like it.”

He slides the gold ribbon off and carefully peels back the black wrapping paper. When he sees the box, his face lights up. He pulls the top off and takes out an eight-inch hunting knife with a buffalo horn handle. The blade is inscribed with the wordPatchedand today’s date.

“How in the hell did you get this engraved so fast? I only got the text to come to church a few days ago.”

“I know the brothers think it’s a bad omen to talk about getting patched in between the time they invite you to church and the start of the meeting, in case you don’t make the cut. But Zen’s old lady dropped me a clue that he was going to nominate you. I bought the knife a couple of months ago and got it engraved at a local jewelry store.”

He tugs it from its housing in the box and tests the feel of it in his hand. “This is an amazing knife. It has some weight to it.”

“You really like it, babe?”

“I fuckin’ love it. Thank you, sweetheart. You’re a good woman, and I don’t deserve you.”

Happiness zings through my chest at his words.

He reaches into his cut and fumbles around in his inside pocket. “Which is why I got you a gift as well.”

My mouth drops open. “Me? A gift? Whatever for?”

Pulling out a rectangular velvet case—the kind that screams jewelry but not a ring—he answers, “It’s a little something to express my thanks for you sticking by my side while I was a lowly prospect. You’ve been amazingly supportive and never made me feel less than for not being a brother. You deserve recognition for your loyalty and caring.”

He slides the red velvet box across the table and says, “The moment I set eyes on it, I thought of you. Hope you like it, babe.”

I lift the lid and find the most beautiful bracelet I’ve ever seen. It’s one of those bracelets with several strands all lined up. One is the most luxurious velvet. Another is gold beads. The next is smooth, round red garnet beads. The top strand is white pearls interspersed with smaller gold beads. There is a diamond-trimmed heart with a gold arrow shooting through it. The inscription is in the style of names carved into a tree. It says:My Girl xoxo.

Tears well up in my eyes. I can tell by the weight of it and the clasp that he splurged on this token of his affection.

I hold it close to my chest and tell him, “Oh, babe, I love it. It’s just my style. You know exactly what I like.”

He’s still running his hand over his new knife but stops long enough to tell me, “Of course I do. You’re my girl. I pay attention to everything that has to do with you.”

The way he says that is so wholesome and sweet.

I point to the knife box. “There’s supposed to be a holster for your knife in the bottom of the box.”

He chuckles, low and warm. “It’s called a sheath, not a holster. Holsters are for guns.”

Unable to keep the smile off my face, I say, “My bad. I’m just a girl. I don’t know anything about weapons.”

“Well, you have excellent taste in knives. This is the kind of knife that lasts a lifetime if you take good care of it.”

I watch him pull out the sheath, affix it to his belt, and slide his new knife into it. It looks real nice on him, if I say so myself.

He jerks his chin at me. “Let me help you put that bracelet on. It’ll be a little pop of color against that black outfit of yours.”

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