Page 66 of Bitter’s Sweet

Mercy feels it. “Read it.”

I pull the phone out with fingers that don’t feel like mine.

Unknown number.

Run to the old woman if you want. I taught you better than to think doors stop me.

Underneath it is a photo.

Mercy’s house.

Taken from the road.

Then one word.

Tonight.

My hand shakes once before I make it still.

Mercy looks at the screen and goes very quiet.

Behind us, Bitter’s voice cuts through the festival noise.

“Sweet.”

I turn.

He is already walking toward me, and this time there is no flirt in his face, no smirk, no pretending. There is just danger and promise and a man who told CSI not to use me, looking at me like somebody has reached for what he refuses to call his.

And God help me, even scared, even angry, even knowing better, I feel protected. Wanted. Not safe, because Bitter Adams will never be safe.

But not alone.

Chapter Five

Bitter

The second I see the picture on Sweet’s phone, something old and ugly wakes up in me.

Mercy’s house sits on the screen, small and square and white under the sagging limbs of two oak trees, porch light glowing yellow, front curtains drawn, driveway empty. Whoever took the picture stood across the road, far enough back not to spook a neighbor, close enough to let Sweet know exactly what he could reach.

Tonight.

That is what the little time stamp says beneath the photo. Not yesterday. Not last week. Not something pulled off the internet.

Tonight.

The first night of the festival has barely gotten started, and Razor Maddox is already reminding her there ain’t a lock in this town he respects.

Mercy’s fingers tighten around Sweet’s arm. Sweet’s face goes pale, but her chin stays up because apparently that woman would smile at a tornado and ask if it needed directions.

I cross the gravel in three strides. “Give me the phone.”

Sweet’s hand closes around it. “No.”

Wrong answer, and also exactly the answer I should’ve expected.

I stop in front of her, close enough to take it if I want, but I don’t. Taking things from scared women is Razor Maddox’s style, and if I start looking like that bastard in Sweet’s eyes, I’ll put my own fist through a wall.