Page 65 of Mystic's Sunrise

I tightened my arm around her, holding her closer, memorizing the weight of her, the way she fit against me like she belonged here. Memorizing it because I knew it wouldn’t last.

Soon, the truth was gonna come crashing down.

And when it did... I wasn’t sure if she'd ever look at me like this again.

CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

I WOKE TOthe sound of Mystic’s voice,barely more than a murmur. It took me a moment to place it—he was on the phone, speaking in hushed tones near the door.

I stayed still, listening.

“I can’t meet you tomorrow,” he said, voice clipped.

A pause. Then, quieter, “Yeah… I know.”

My heart slowed, heavy in my chest.Who was he talking to?

His voice was different—not the quiet, protective calm he used with me. There was somethingtensein the way he spoke, something strained.

I swallowed hard, forcing myself to stay still as he ended the call. The moment stretched in the dark. I should’ve closedmy eyes, pretended to be asleep. But when Mystic turned back toward the bed, I knew he felt me watching him.

He hesitated for only a second before stepping closer, his hand brushing over the blanket near my hip.Guilty. He felt guilty.

I wanted to ask. I wanted to open my mouth and demand an explanation.

But I didn’t.

Because I was afraid of the answer.

Instead, I turned onto my side, curling into myself, feeling his warmth at my back as he climbed back into bed.

I didn’t sleep the rest of the night.

***

SOMETHING WAS DIFFERENT.Mystic had been quiet all morning, not in a cold way, but like his mind was somewhere else. He still touched me, still watched me with that gentle expression that always made my chest tighten. But something about him felt... distracted.

I didn’t want to think too hard about it. Didn’t want to start pulling at loose threads that might unravel everything we’d built in the past few weeks. But I wasn’t blind.

He sat at the small table in my room, flipping a knife open and closed in a slow, repetitive motion, his eyes unreadable. The scars on his hands caught the low light, a reminder of just how much he had been through. Of how much he carried that he never talked about.

I wanted him to talk to me.

“You seem restless,” I said finally, sitting on the edge of the bed, watching him. My voice was soft, careful. “Is something wrong?”

His gaze flicked to me, and for a second, I thought he might actually say something real. But instead, he exhaled, shaking his head. “Nah, just got some things to take care of.”

Things. Vague. Purposefully distant.

The air between us thickened, heavy with something I couldn’t name. That feeling crept in again—the one I’d been trying to ignore. Like I was missing something. Like there was a part of him I still didn’t know.

Before I could push, his phone buzzed on the table. He grabbed it without hesitation, glancing at the screen. His jaw tightened.

“Gotta take this,” he muttered, already standing.

My stomach twisted. It wasn’t club business. I knew how he was with that—gruff but direct. This was something else. Something personal.

I forced a nod. “Okay.”

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