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I did not trip and land naked.

I aimed.

Then, when hurting her privately did not make her disappear fast enough, I stood in front of my entire club and lied about her.

A woman I fucked.

You wanted it to mean more.

Not enough.

Every word chosen for maximum damage.

That is the part I have to live with.

By sunrise, one thing is painfully clear.

I do not need Sweet to forgive me today.

I need to stop behaving like forgiveness is something I can earn on a schedule.

The door opens while I am staring at my knuckles.

Mercy stands there in yesterday’s black dress, silver hair pinned high, lipstick perfect because apparently personal disaster is no excuse for standards.

“She’s awake.”

I stand too quickly, and pain shoots through the shoulder I nearly tore out catching Sweet at the murder hole.

Good.

Let it hurt.

“Can I see her?”

Mercy studies me. “You asking me or telling me?”

“Asking.”

“Miracles before breakfast.”

“Mercy.”

“She said five minutes.”

My lungs forget their job.

Mercy steps closer and lowers her voice. “Do not waste those five minutes defending yourself. Do not carry Lena in there like evidence. Do not explain club code. Do not explain Hyde. Do not explain fear. You have spent enough time explaining yourself.”

“I know.”

Her eyebrows rise.

I amend, “I’m learning.”

“Better.”

She steps aside.