Page 19

I can’t help it. I laugh for real then, bright and too loud.

A few heads turn in the yard.

One of them belongs to a man I ain’t heard named yet.

He stands near the open bay of the coffin workshop, half in shadow, half in light. He is as tall and broad as any of them, but not as rough-looking at first glance. He has light brown hair, a rough trimmed beard, and a black leather cut that sits on him like it has been warned not to move. But there’s that something else. He looks more approachable. More conventionally handsome, if that is even a thing here. His arms are crossed over his chest. His gaze is fixed on me.

My laugh catches a little. Not because I’m afraid. Because every nerve in my body suddenly stands up like someone called roll.

Miss Mercy follows my gaze. Her expression changes.

“And that,” she says, quieter now, “is Bitter Adams.”

The name hits me like a warning. Bitter. The opposite of what Mercy just made me.

“Only one with a last name?”

“No. Plenty of them got last names. Bitter’s is just the one you’ll hear more often. The Adams family helped found this chapter, and everybody says his full name like he’s an unruly child.”

“And?” Suddenly I’m curious, and she’s quiet.

“Enforcer,” she says. “Mean mouth. Mean hands when needed. Thinks he can charm, scare, or screw his way out of anything, and the worst part is he is usually right. Don’t let that one get under your skin, Sweet. He is poison wrapped in a pretty biker.”

The man pushes away from the wall.

Miss Mercy sighs. “And he heard me.”

He walks toward the side door with the steady pace of a man who expects the world to make room.

It does.

Even from behind glass, I can tell. People shift. Conversations bend around him. Nobody acts scared exactly, but everybody acts aware. Like when thunder rolls close enough to remind you the sky makes trouble.

The door at the end of the hall opens a few seconds later.

Bootsteps sound on the floor behind us.

“Mercy,” he says. “You warning off fresh blood before she even gets a chance to make her own mistakes?”

His voice is rough honey over gravel. Tennessee all the way down, but not soft. Never soft.

Miss Mercy turns with one hand on her hip. “I’m educating a student.”

“You were slandering a brother.”

“I was being generous.”

His eyes flick to her, then to me.

Up close, Bitter Adams is even worse.

Not worse ugly. Worse dangerous, and worse handsome in a way that makes a woman suspect every bad decision in her life was just rehearsal. His beard is dark, trimmed but not neat enough to look civilized. His eyes are a shade between brown and black, deep set under brows that make every look feel like a challenge. There is a scar through one eyebrow and another along his jaw but not enough to make his handsome mug less handsome. His cut smells faintly like leather, smoke, and cedar. All of a sudden, it’s the best damn shit I’ve ever inhaled.

I smile before I can stop myself.

“Hi.”

His gaze narrows a fraction, as if my cheerfulness offends him personally.