Page 57 of Bitter’s Sweet

“You barely know me.”

“I know you smiled through a Reaper mark on your car.”

My breath catches before I can stop it.

His face changes. Not softer exactly. Bitter Adams doesn’t seem built for soft, but something in his eyes lowers its voice.

“I know you saw that bike and wanted to run,” he says. “I know you didn’t because you didn’t want me to see you scared. I know the text earlier put the same look on your face. And I know whoever Razor is, he’s close enough to hear Mercy call you Sweet.”

I swallow. The festival noise gets louder around us, or maybe my heartbeat does.

“He called me Doll,” I whisper.

Bitter goes still. It is not dramatic. He doesn’t gasp or curse or grab me. He simply stops being a man and becomes a weapon waiting to be aimed.

“Who did?”

“You know who.”

“Say it.”

I shake my head. “No.”

“Why?”

“Because when men like him name you, they think it means they made you. I don’t want his name in my mouth and I don’t want the one he gave me in yours.”

Bitter’s jaw flexes.

For one second, I think he understands too much.

Then he nods once. “Fair.”

That surprises me enough to look at him.

He reaches out slowly, giving me time to step back, and touches the side of my phone with two fingers. He doesn’t take it or force it from my hand. Those two rough fingertips are barely touching plastic, not me, yet my attention drops straight to them anyway. I know exactly how easily that hand could close over mine. Exactly how big it would feel at my waist, on the back of my neck, sliding beneath the hem of my dress if I ever lost every bit of sense Mama gave me.

Instead, he leaves the phone in my hand.

“Let me see enough to know if he’s threatening you.”

For half a second, I almost forget Razor entirely.

He asked.

Bitter Adams, who has been issuing orders since I met him, actually asked.

“He’s always threatening me. Sometimes he uses manners.”

“Sweet.”

“Bitter.”

We stare at each other. I should say no again. A smart woman would say no and walk inside. A smarter woman would have never come to a motorcycle club’s funeral school with a stalker ex and a heart that apparently wants to make friends with danger.

I unlock the phone and hold it so he can read without taking it from my hand.

His eyes move over the screen.