Emotion twisted in my chest at how hard he was trying to soften himself for me. Leaning forward, I took the spoon into my mouth, sliding the grits onto my tongue. “Mmm, those are so good.”
“Leave it to Mama Liz to make homemade grits. She acts like it’s some kinda sacrilege to eat packaged ones.”
“She just wants the best for her boys,” I replied, with a smile.
Deacon spooned me a bite of biscuit and gravy. As I chewed thoughtfully, he cocked his head at me. “What are you thinking about?”
“That no one would ever believe that Mr. Hard Ass biker boy was feeding me.”
With a snort, Deacon said, “Boy? I’m a man, babe.”
“That you are.”
Obediently I took in another bite of grits. Once I swallowed, Deacon brought the orange juice to my lips. “Shit!” I cried, as the acidity entered my mouth and swished against the raw parts caused by the gag as well as me biting on my tongue and cheek.
Deacon winced. “I should’ve realized orange juice wouldn’t be a good choice.”
“You have a lot of experience with busted mouths?” I questioned before I could stop myself.
“Yeah, I did. Back when I used to fight.”
“Don’t you fight anymore?”
“Yeah, but it was different back when I was a kid. It was a way of survival then.” Searching my eyes for any judgment, he added, “But even now, I won’t stop fighting.”
“A necessary evil,” I murmured. When he gave a brief jerk of his head in acknowledgement, I couldn’t help asking, “What happens now?” I asked.
“You stay here until you get better.”
“Then what?”
Deacon shrugged. “Then you stay here until I get tired of you.”
I laughed. “I think you need to work on your hospitality skills.”
He grinned. “What’s with all the questions? I thought we took care of all this touchy feely shit last night in the shower.”
“We did. But I’m a little OCD when it comes to having a plan for the future.”
“All your pretty little head needs to worry about is healing.” With a pointed look, he added, “Because that bastard will never hurt you again. I swear it.”
As Deacon brought the spoon to my lips, I pushed his hand away. At his raised brows, I asked in a whisper, “You killed him. Didn’t you?”
Deacon let out a ragged sigh. “Don’t ask me about my business.”
I shook my head. “Oh no. Don’t you pull a Michael CorleoneGodfathermoment on me, Deacon. I know I said I would stay, but I do have my conditions. Honesty is one of them.”
“The only reason I would keep things from you would be to protect you. The less you know about the Raiders’ dealings the better. Then you can never be made to testify in a RICO case.”
While that made sense, I couldn’t leave well enough alone. “Did you kill him?” I repeated.
The spoon clattered noisily into the bowl. The cold and calculating expression on Deacon’s face caused me to shrink back against the pillows. “Yeah, I fucking killed him. When someone hurts the people I care about, I don’t wait for a judge and jury—I take matters into my own hands.”
While I’d had my suspicions about Deacon’s dark sins, as well as having his confession about killing his father, nothing could compare to actually hearing the words come out of his mouth. He was beyond just a dark dealing outlaw.
He was a killer.
And he’d killed for me.
