Page 114 of Mystic's Sunrise

The moment the thick, humid air of the afternoon hit my face, I drew in a breath so sharp it felt like it might split my chest. The heat clung to my skin like the panic still clinging to my ribs, and I stood there for a second, motionless, as the weight of everything pressed down.

My hands were shaking, fingers twitching as if they didn’t know what to do first—break something or hold on tighter. My pulse thudded too fast, too hard, blood roaring in my ears as if my body knew I was unraveling and was trying to outrun it.

I couldn’t let it end like this. I couldn’t let him walk away while I was left with scraps and silence.

There had to be a way to fix this. To shift the board back in my favor.

And then the idea came, not a spark, but a slow, cold certainty sliding into place. The last move I hadn’t played.

I dug through my bag with trembling hands, fingers curling around my phone like it was a loaded gun. Unlocking the screen, I scrolled until I reached the name I wanted. The line rang once. Then twice.

“Get your ass over to the house,” I snapped.

CHAPTER SIXTY-SIX

ZEYNEP WAS FALLINGapart in front of me, and she wasn’t even trying to hide it anymore.

From across the room, I watched her stack dishes onto a tray, her hands trembling so badly she could barely keep hold of them. Her shoulders were hunched, too thin and drawn tight like over-wound wire—each step stiff, mechanical, like she was running on sheer willpower alone. No rest. No food. No sleep. Just survival.

That was what she did.

And yet… she acted like none of it mattered.

Brenda said something to her, trying to take the tray from her hands. But Zeynep jerked away, a flash of resistance in a body that looked moments away from collapse.

Brenda scowled, straightening up with that fire of hers sparking to life. “Girl, I swear, if you don’t sit your ass down—”

“I am fine,” Zeynep replied, voice quiet but steady, the kind of final that left no room for argument.

Bullshit.

I pushed off the wall, tired of standing back, tired of watching her deteriorate while pretending she wasn’t.

She turned from Brenda and started toward the kitchen, but I moved into her path before she could pass.

She stopped abruptly, close enough that I felt the shift in her breath, the sudden tension that flared between us. But she said nothing. Didn’t even look at me. No flicker of emotion. No recognition. Just silence, like I wasn’t there at all.

She tried to move around me, and I blocked her again.

Her fingers gripped the tray tighter, knuckles whitening from the pressure, but her gaze remained fixed somewhere beyond me—as if I didn’t exist.

I could feel the frustration boiling under my skin, rising fast, too fast, like gasoline looking for flame.

I leaned in slightly, voice low. “Say somethin’.”

But she didn’t even blink. Didn’t flinch. Just moved as if I were air, something to pass through.

And that was it. I snapped.

My hand shot out, snatching the tray from her grip. The dishes clattered, one nearly tipping over the edge, but I didn’t care. I wanted her to react. Ineededher to react.

Her eyes finally met mine—and fuck.

She looked pale, the skin beneath her lashes bruised with exhaustion, lips pressed into a tight line like she was holdingherself together by sheer force of will. But it wasn’t her body that gutted me—it was her eyes.

There was no spark in them. No fight. No fire.

Just acceptance.

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