Page 48

She pauses.

“You leave today, you leave with me or Mercy. Nobody else.”

Her smile is small now. “Club business?”

I hold her gaze.

I could lie better. I usually do.

“Yeah. Club business.”

She looks like she doesn’t believe me. Smart girl.

Then she turns and walks back into the School of the Dead, carrying her secrets, her fear, and that sunshine smile like none of it weighs a thing.

I watch until the doors close behind her.

Nevermore stands beside me, quiet for once.

I pull out my phone and text Ghoul the bike description. Then CSI, telling him to pull every camera angle from the south road, school lot, and dump cutoff. Then Boogie, telling him to keep prospects away from Sweet’s car before one of them sees OURS and starts a rumor that gets somebody stabbed.

My thumb hovers.

Then I text Hyde.

Reaper mark on Mercy’s new student’s car. Ex is likely Razor Maddox. Personal problem on top of whatever Ravenfork is doing around the shipment. I’m keeping eyes on her.

I stare at that last sentence. I’m keeping eyes on her. Sounds simple. Professional. Like a man doing his job.

Nevermore reads over my shoulder because he has no survival instinct when it comes to annoying me.

“Forgot to add for club business.”

I shove the phone into my pocket. “Fuck off.”

He smiles. “There he is.”

I look back at the school doors. Somewhere inside, Sweet is probably smiling at dead people, taking notes, pretending she ain’t scared, and making every survival instinct I own pace like a chained dog.

I’m not interested in her.

I’m not letting some Ravenfork bastard drag personal trouble onto Grave Prowlers property.

And I sure as hell ain’t standing here wondering whether that picture in her car was something she kept because she once loved Razor Maddox or something the bastard planted because he wanted us both to know he could reach her.

That’s all this is.

Club business.

I tell myself that as I head for the south gate, eyes on the road, hands loose, temper ready. Then I pass Sweet’s little blue car and see the word carved into the paint again.

OURS.

My jaw locks.

Razor Maddox can believe whatever he wants. Men like him usually do right up until the dirt hits their face.

Sweet ain’t mine. She ain’t anybody’s. That don’t mean I’m going to stand around politely while she makes choices that get her hurt.