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Tomorrow, Ravenfork can be a problem. Bitter can be an enforcer, and I can be a mortuary student who knows entirely too much about motorcycle-club security.

Tonight, I am just Sweet.

Not Doll.

Not somebody’s property.

Not the woman who ran or the woman who fell.

Sweet.

I picked the name.

I picked the school.

I picked Tennessee.

And God help me, I picked Bitter Adams.

Beside me, Bitter steals a bite of my cobbler.

I slap his hand.

“Get your own.”

“Thought we shared.”

“Trauma has changed me.”

“You're mean.”

“You love it.”

His grin goes slow.

“Yeah.”

Sheriff crows somewhere in the dark.

Bitter looks toward the sound.

“That fucking chicken is haunting me.”

“He's alive.”

“For now.”

“Bitter.”

“Responsible poultry choices.”

I laugh so hard I nearly drop my plate.

Bitter catches it.

Of course he does.

Some habits I am willing to let him keep.