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Rage wants me fast.

Fear knows better.

Fear checks shadows and listens.

Fear recognizes Sweet's voice before I see her.

“You always did confuse persistence with personality.”

Alive.

My knees nearly give.

Razor answers from somewhere beyond the broken wall. “You always did have a mouth, Doll.”

My hand tightens around the grip.

“I got a new name now.”

“I heard.”

“You stalking me through a funeral school was my first clue.”

Even now, with that bastard, she has jokes.

Then a slap cracks through the dark.

Everything in me goes white.

For half a second, there is no club, no rules, no plan.

Just murder.

Sweet says, breathless, “Well, that was rude.”

Alive.

Still alive.

I move through the trees.

Branches open enough for me to see them.

Razor stands near the old concrete pad with one hand wrapped around Sweet's upper arm. He's leaner than I expected. Dark beard. Ravenfork cut exposed beneath the denim jacket now. Black helmet on the ground near his boot.

Sweet's cheek is red. Her pink shoes are dusty. Her shirt is pulled crooked where he grabbed it.

And when I look at her, something inside me splits wide open.

My motherfucking fault.

Not the slap. That belongs entirely to Razor. Not him stalking her. Not the threats. Not one violent thing this bastard chose.

But when Sweet needed somewhere safe to run today, I made damn sure she would not choose me.

Yesterday she would have.

That is the truth.