Page 17 of Mystic's Sunrise

Her hand twitched under the blanket. Both hands, bruised, knuckles torn like she’d fought with everything she had. Stilllost. But she’d fought. There was something to be said for that kind of fire.

I watched her breathing, uneven but steady. Fragile and strong all at once. Whatever this was… whatever mess she’d been dragged into… it was too late for me to back away.

I was already in it.

And damned if I knew why.

CHAPTER TEN

THREE DAYS.

ATleast, that’s what they told me.

Time had been hard to keep track of while lying in this bed, caught between sleep and pain, drifting in and out like waves dragging me under and tossing me back to the surface. The haze of fever had finally lifted, leaving exhaustion in its place. Bruises ached, ribs protested with every breath, and my throat... my throat was a raw, burning reminder of what they had taken from me. My voice. Gone for now. Maybe longer. I tried not to thinkabout that. Thinking led to panic, and panic cost energy I didn’t have.

Faint light filtered through the curtains, casting soft shadows across the room. It was nice, the kind of place that might’ve felt cozy under different circumstances. But not now. Not here. Not while my body was broken. A faint scent lingered in the air—something floral and woodsy, clean soap and leather. Odd combination. Strangely comforting. I wasn’t back there. Not with them. That was what mattered.

A chair creaked beside me. I turned my head—slow, careful—and there he was. Kain. Or Mystic, as the others called him. He had mentioned his real name once, in passing, trying to distract me from the pain. I likedKain… it stuck with me. Felt real. Human. Less like a title, more like a person, the man, not the patch sewn onto his cut.

He sat slouched, elbows resting on his knees, hands loosely clasped. His gaze was downcast, lost somewhere far away. Blond hair was messily tousled, jaw shadowed with stubble that blended into the scars carving across his face. I should’ve looked away. Shouldn’t have stared. But I didn’t. He didn’t notice, or maybe he did and just didn’t care.

His presence was steady. Solid. Like a locked door keeping out the noise in my head. I didn’t know why he had been there, why every time I had opened my eyes over the past few days, he had been sitting right there. Quiet. Unmoving. Not asking questions. Not looking for praise. Just…there.

And I trusted him completely. I didn’t know when that had happened, when that wall inside me had cracked enough to let him in. But it had. And that scared me as much as it comforted me. He was safe. My heart knew it, even when my head kept searching for reasons not to believe it.

His gaze lifted, meeting mine. Blue and gold. Mismatched. Striking. Haunted. Again, I should’ve looked away, but I didn’t. Neither did he.

“Hey,” he said, voice rough like gravel but softer than it should have been coming from a man like him. “You’re lookin’ a little more alive today.” There was something in his tone—humor, maybe. Or relief. Hard to tell without knowing him better.

A faint smile pulled at my lips, small, but there. Pain sparked along my jaw, and I winced. He noticed instantly, eyes narrowing with concern that flickered quick but genuine.

“Pain bad?”

I nodded. No point lying. He reached for the bedside table, grabbed the water bottle, and held it to my lips without hesitation. His fingers brushed against my skin—warm, calloused, steady. I sipped slowly, the coolness soothing the burn in my throat. When he pulled it away, he set it down with a quiet thunk, his gaze never straying far from mine.

“Doc says you’re healin’ up. Slow, but steady,” he muttered, leaning back in the chair. His body loosened, but his eyes remained alert, studying me like a lock that wouldn’t turn, a code just out of reach. “Won’t be runnin’ marathons anytime soon, but you’ll be on your feet before long. Gotta give yourself time.” His gaze drifted toward the window, voice dropping lower. “Been through worse myself… know how that climb back feels. Ain’t easy.”

His words settled over me like a blanket, rough, a little frayed, but warm nonetheless. I glanced at the scars carving down the side of his face—jagged slashes, thick and uneven, where deep wounds had once torn through skin. Burns marred the edges, the flesh warped and rough, disappearing beneath the collar of his shirt like they continued their path down his body.Yeah.He knew.Pain recognized pain.

Minutes stretched out in comfortable silence, the kind you didn’t get with strangers. He didn’t push. Didn’t ask what had happened. Didn’t demand to know why Dragon Fire had taken me. I could see the questions flickering behind those strange eyes, but he held them back. That… meant something.

Shifting carefully, I tried to adjust the blanket on my legs, fingers fumbling, useless in the thick bandages. Frustration burned in my chest. Before I could try again, he reached out—gentle but sure—and fixed it for me, tucking the fabric around me like it was the most normal thing in the world. Like taking care of me wasn’t something he had to think twice about.

Most people didn’t stick around for someone they barely knew. I wanted to say it. Wanted to askwhy—why he was still here. But my voice… my words were gone. So I let my gaze do the talking. The question hung in the air between us.

He sighed, rubbing a hand down his face. “You need someone to take care of you,” he finally said. “And I don’t mind doin’ it.”

Simple. Honest. No grand speech. Just Mystic being Mystic—straightforward and steady.

No, I thought.You’re just… good.Beneath the rough edges, the scars, the gruffness—there was something solid in him. Safe. Real.

My fingers twitched, hesitating before I reached out. Not far. Just enough to let my bandaged hand rest near his on the edge of the bed. An offering. A silentthank you. A silentdon’t go.

His eyes flicked down, surprise flashing across his face like he hadn’t expected it. Slowly, deliberately, he turned his palm up, letting mine settle over his. No pressure. No expectations. Just connection, raw, simple, and honest.

His thumb brushed over my bandaged knuckles, light, careful in a way that shouldn’t fit the roughness of him… but somehow, it did.

“You’re tougher than you look, y’know that?” he murmured, lips curving into something that might have been a smile—small, crooked, fleeting. “Hell… maybe tougher than me.”

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