Page 65 of Bitter’s Sweet

Then he shuts it down. I see the door close behind his eyes.

“You leave with me or Mercy,” he says. “Pick.”

The hurt is ridiculous. I know that. He warned me. He told me exactly what he was. He told me he doesn’t do dates, promises, or soft little morning-after talks. I should be grateful for the honesty.

The stupid part is that I’m already starting to believe his actions more than his warnings.

Instead, I want to slap him and kiss him and maybe cry in the taxidermy squirrel booth where no respectable person can see me.

I lift my chin. “Mercy.”

Something moves across his face.

Good. Let it sting.

He nods once. “Fine.”

It is not fine. We both know it.

I turn away before my face can betray me.

Miss Mercy meets me halfway across the lot, already holding my bag like she knew this was coming. “Come on, Sweet.”

“Where?”

“My place tonight.”

I glance back despite myself.

Bitter is still beside my car, tracker bag in one hand, eyes on me like he can guard me by looking hard enough.

I hate how much I want to run to him.

I hate more that I don’t.

Mercy slips her arm through mine. “Chin up.”

“It is up.”

“Higher. Men like that need to see what they’re missing before they understand what they’re risking.”

“I thought you said not to let him under my skin.”

“I did.”

“You’re giving confusing advice.”

“I’m Southern. That’s half the job.”

A laugh breaks out of me, shaky but real.

As Mercy leads me back toward the School of the Dead, the festival lights blink on one by one around us, orange and gold and ghostly white. Somewhere behind me, Bitter gives orders in that rough voice of his, and men move because they’re used to obeying him.

I keep walking.

My phone buzzes again.

I stop breathing.