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“Hold on, Sweet.”

I almost laugh.

What exactly does he think I am doing? Taking up flying?

Instead, I dig my fingers harder into his wrist and try not to look down.

I look anyway.

The hole waits.

Sixty feet of old concrete and darkness. The same place tourists laughed about earlier while buying shovel magnets and drinking cider. The same hole kids dared each other to spit into because people will make a joke out of anything that scares them right up until they are hanging over it.

My pink shoe slips against the crumbling side.

A scream climbs my throat.

Bitter’s grip tightens.

“Eyes on me.”

“I’m slipping.”

“No, you ain’t.”

“I am.”

“No.” His voice cracks like a commandment. “You are not.”

A hand catches the back of his belt. Another grabs his shoulder.

Ghoul drops beside him, cursing.

Nevermore’s voice cuts through the chaos. “Pull on three.”

“I’ve got her,” Bitter snarls.

“No shit. Now let us help before both of you go in.”

Bitter keeps looking at me.

There is fear in his eyes. Real fear. Not anger dressed up like control. Not the hard distance he used when the club mattered more than his promise. Not that cruel, shut-down stare from the workshop when I caught him with Trixie. Not the face he wore in front of his entire club this morning when he told them I was nothing more than a woman he fucked.

This is fear, open and ugly and honest.

He is terrified of losing me.

That should not matter right now.

It does.

“One,” Nevermore says.

My fingers slip a fraction against Bitter’s blood.

“Sweet.” His voice gets softer. “Don’t let go.”

“I’m trying.”