Page 43 of Mystic's Sunrise

The man she could lean on.

My grip tightened around the bottle until my knuckles turned white. I wasn’t that man. Not even close. I had the scars, inside and out, to prove it. Why couldn’t Zeynep see it?

"You good, brother?" Chain’s voice cut through the tangle of my thoughts.

I hadn't even heard him walk up. My spine stiffened before I caught myself. I grabbed the beer again, needing something, anything to ground me. "Yeah," I muttered, voice rough. "Why?"

Chain shrugged, but there was that flicker in his eyes—too cutting, too damn knowing. His gaze flicked to Zeynep, then back to me. "No reason," he said, casual as sin. "Just noticin’ you been a little more... involved with our pretty little guest."

I gave him a look sharp enough to cut, but he didn’t flinch.

"Ain’t judgin’, just observin’." Chain took a swig of his own beer, leaning his elbow on the bar like we were just two brothers talking shit. "You still watchin’ out for her... or has this turned into somethin’ else?"

My hand flexed around the bottle. A muscle ticked in my jaw. "I don’t know what the fuck you’re talkin’ about."

Chain just chuckled, a low, rough sound. "Yeah. Sure you don’t."

I shoved off the bar, the old wood creaking under my weight. "I got shit to do," I growled, not looking at him.

I felt his smirk burning into my back as I stalked toward the door. Felt the heat of it crawl over my skin like judgment I didn’t want and but fucking deserved.

The door slammed against the frame as I shoved it open, the night air biting cold against my face.

Didn’t matter.

The damage was already done.

I could drown in a bottle, put a thousand miles between us, bury myself in the club 'til my knuckles bled—I'd still be hers.

The humid night air wrapped around me the second I shoved through the door, thick enough to choke on.

I welcomed it.

Hell, I needed it.

I needed something to cut through the knot of shit twisting up my insides before I did something I couldn’t come back from.

I dug a crumpled pack of cigarettes out of my cut, fingers rough with impatience. One bent stick tumbled loose. I caught it, shoved it between my teeth, and flicked my lighter to life. The flame danced in the heavy dark.

I took a long drag, letting the smoke fill my lungs, letting it burn. Letting ithurt.

The clubhouse door thunked shut behind me. Muted laughter spilled out for a second, then got swallowed by the night. I stared out across the gravel lot, past the row of bikes lined up like soldiers, chrome glinting under the busted floodlight.

The woods beyond the lot loomed close, tangled and restless. Spanish moss dripped from the trees, swaying like ghost fingers in the heavy breeze. It should’ve felt like home. It didn’t. I shifted my weight, boots grinding against gravel. The cigarette burned low between my fingers, the ember flaring with every tight breath.

That’s when it hit me. That feeling. Crawling up the back of my neck. The one I knew too damn well.

Someone was watching.

My hand twitched toward the gun at my belt without thinking.

I scanned the tree line, the gaps between the bikes, the far reaches of the lot. Nothing moved. Nothing made a sound but the slow creak of the trees and the distant thump of the music inside.

Still, the feeling stayed. Burrowed deep. Refused to let go.

I dragged off the cigarette, keeping my body loose even as my pulse jumped under my skin.

Lesson number one: don’t let ‘em see you tense.

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