Page 169 of Mystic's Sunrise

“She didn’t do that,” I growled, the sound ripping up my throat. I pulled hard against the chains, the rusted pipe groaning in protest. “Drago pulled the trigger. That blood’s on him.”

Jason stood, slow and menacing, and turned toward me with a sneer that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “You still don’t get it. She ran. She made a choice. And that choice put Rory in the ground. My best friend’s body rotted in a shallow grave while she kept breathin’.”

“You want revenge?” I barked, every word laced with fury. “Then fuckin’ take it out on me. Come on. Let’s settle it. But don’t you fuckin’ touch her.”

Jason tilted his head with a slow, mocking smile. “Oh, soldier boy. You’re not the one I came here to hurt. Beating you wouldn’t satisfy me. Watching you break while she screams? That’s where the pleasure is.”

He turned back to her.

My chest seized. My breath caught.

“Don’t,” I said, my voice low, shaking with rage. “Don’t you fuckin’ touch her.”

He grabbed her by the jaw, fingers digging into her skin as he forced her face toward me. Her eyes met mine, wide, terrified, but still trying to stay strong.

“You see him?” Jason hissed into her ear. “That’s the man who’s gonna watch while I ruin you. That’s the man who let it happen. He couldn’t stop it.”

Zeynep whimpered, not from fear for herself, but for me.

And I saw it.

She wasn’t afraid of the pain. She was afraid of what it would do tome.

That single sound—small and broken—shattered whatever restraint I had left.

Jason grabbed the front of her shirt and tore at the neckline, dragging her across the floor, toward the center of the room like she was nothing but weight.

“STOP!” I roared, the word tearing from my lungs like a gunshot. I yanked against the chains with everything I had. Felt the metal dig into my wrists, blood running slick down my arms, pain lighting up every nerve like fire—but I didn’t stop.

The pipe bent.

Jason shoved her down to her knees, his hand still tight in her shirt.

“You’ll scream soon enough,” he said, his voice menacing, almost gleeful.

But Zeynep didn’t scream. She lifted her chin just a little. Her voice cracked, rough and quiet, but steady. “You can’t hurt me… not inside.”

He backhanded her.

Her head snapped to the side, and she crumpled to the floor with a cry that cut through the room like a knife.

That was it.

That was the match on the gasoline.

I snapped.

The pipe shrieked, metal screaming against stone as the bolts ripped free from the wall. The chains tore loose, and I staggered forward, arms slick with blood, vision swimming—but none of it slowed me down. I was already moving. Already on him.

Jason turned too late.

I hit him like a fucking freight train.

We crashed to the ground, his body slamming against concrete, his knife skidding out of reach. He scrambled, reaching for it, but I kicked it across the floor and brought my fist down.

Once.

Twice.

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