Page 42 of Bitter’s Sweet

“This is my life.”

“Not if he takes it from you.”

Her breath catches, and I hate myself a little for saying it like that. Not enough to take it back. Fear used right can save a woman. Fear ignored can put her at the bottom of a hole with flowers on top. I’ve never been real interested in asking permission when I think somebody’s life is on the line.

Mercy opens the door wider. “Sweet.”

Sweet looks between us like she might fight us both. I can see that bright stubborn streak under the soft clothes, the part of her that survived somebody calling control love.

Then she walks inside.

Good girl.

I do not say it out loud. She’d probably kick me in the shin with one of those pink shoes, and Mercy would applaud.

I hand the bag to Mercy instead.

Sweet’s eyes flash. “Really?”

“Really.”

“I said I don’t need protection.”

“And I didn’t believe you.”

“I’m not yours to protect.”

The words hit wrong because they are true and because I want to argue.

“You’re on club property,” I say, holding tight to the safest lie I’ve got. “Reapers sniffing around club property is club business. Reaper marks on a student’s car outside our school is club business. Whoever Razor is, if he’s bringing heat to our door, that’s club business too.”

“Calling it club business doesn’t magically make my choices yours.”

“Didn’t say it did. Said Razor made himself my problem.”

Her face tightens at his name. “He’s not bringing anything. He’s just trying to scare me.”

“Is it working?”

“No.”

Liar.

Mercy steps between us. “Sweet, go wash up. Petal will show you where we keep the spare aprons. You’re not going outside alone again.”

“I don’t work here yet.”

“You do if you want that license, and you do if you want me standing between you and whatever followed you from Ravenfork.”

Sweet looks like she might cry for half a second.

Then she smiles.

Lord, that smile is starting to piss me off. Not because it’s ugly. Because it’s pretty enough to fool people who don’t know better, and apparently I’ve become someone who knows better.

“Yes, ma’am,” she says.

She walks down the hall toward the school, back straight, steps steady, pink shoes quiet on the floor.