Page 116 of Mystic's Sunrise

Her voice slipped into the space between us like a knife wrapped in silk.

I closed my eyes, jaw clenching, the sound of it hitting harder than anything I’d said all day. When I opened them again, she wasn’t looking at me. She was looking past me, like she already knew I’d move.

And I did.

I stepped aside.

She walked past me without a word, her steps steady, controlled—but I knew how much effort it took her just to keep moving.

And I let her go.

Again.

The second she disappeared around the corner, it was like something caved in on itself inside me. A kind of helplessness I couldn’t shake, sinking deep in my chest and twisting everything up until I didn’t know if I wanted to scream or collapse.

I stood there, frozen, staring at the place where she’d been, every breath a struggle not to chase after her.

I should’ve held her. Should’ve said something that mattered.

But I’d chosen rage. Chosen noise.

And she didn’t need my anger, she needed to feel safe, and I’d failed her in that, too.

I turned sharply, eyes burning, throat thick, and made my way toward the back of the clubhouse, needing space. Needing air. Needing to hit something before I broke apart in front of the people who followed me.

The hallway felt like it was closing in, too narrow, too tight for the storm building inside me. When I hit the back door, I shoved it open with enough force to make it slam into the wall behind it. The night air rushed over me, but it didn’t cool the heat under my skin. My fists curled and uncurled at my sides, chest heaving, pulse too loud in my ears to hear anything else.

Then the anger surged again, and I let it.

My fist slammed into the nearest crate, the wood exploding beneath the impact, shards scattering across the gravel. Pain ripped up my arm, sudden and sharp—but it still didn’t hurt as much as the look in her eyes.

I bent forward, bracing myself on my knees, breathing like I’d taken a hit to the ribs, trying to hold in the sound clawing up my throat. Words had never come easy for me. Not the ones that mattered. Not the ones that could make things right.

And if I didn’t figure it out now—

The door behind me creaked open. Devil came up beside me without a word, his gaze falling to the busted crate and the blood on my knuckles.

Then, with a dry chuckle, he said, “That helping?”

I shook out my hand, breath still ragged. “Not even a little.”

After a beat of silence, he said it, flat, simple, cutting. “You’re a dumbass.”

A broken laugh escaped me. “Yeah,” I muttered. “Figured that out about five minutes ago.”

“You sure?” he asked, arms folded across his chest. “’Cause from where I’m standing, you’re out here fighting crates instead of fighting for her.”

I clenched my jaw. “And how the fuck am I supposed to do that?”

He didn’t answer right away. When he did, his voice was steady, calm, and low enough to leave no room for bullshit.

“You don’t fix this, Mystic. You earn it.”

The words sank in, heavy and pointed.

He nodded toward my bleeding hand. “You can bleed all over this goddamn lot, break every box in the county—it won’t make her forget what you did. Won’t make her believe you’re not like the rest.”

I didn’t respond. I couldn’t. Because he was right.

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