Page 42 of Mystic's Sunrise

Mystic’s gaze never left me. “And that helped you?”

I nodded. “It made me believe there was still good in the world.” My fingers tightened slightly on the cover. “Even when I couldn’t see it.”

Silence stretched between us. Mystic exhaled, rubbing a hand over his jaw. “Never had somethin’ like that,” he admitted after a moment. “Somethin’ to hold onto when shit got bad.”

I studied him, my eyes softening. “Maybe you do now.”

Mystic’s jaw ticked, his gaze flickering to mine, something unreadable in his expression. Then, without a word, he reached forward and ran a rough fingertip along the worn spine of the book. Just a simple touch, acknowledging what it meant to me.

My chest ached—not from fear or pain, but from somethingelse.Something that made me feel seen.

He cleared his throat, pulling back. “Keep reading. If it helps, you hold onto it.”

I gave him a small nod, my fingers brushing over the pages again. As he stood to leave, I found myself whispering, “Would you like me to read to you?”

He stopped. Turned. His eyes flicked back to the book, then to me.

A slow grin curled his lips. “I have to meet with Devil, but you’ll read to me later, yeah?”

“Yeah,” I murmured, and smiled at him softly as he left.

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

I SHOULD’VE WALKEDaway the second she started getting stronger.

The first few days had been easy, or as easy as looking after a bruised and broken woman could be. She needed help, and I gave it. Simple as that.

But now?

Now she was moving around more. Sitting up. Reading. Talking with the others in soft looks and gestures that said more than words could. She wasn't just surviving. She was making the clubhouse feel likehers. And that was dangerous.

I leaned against the scarred bar in the common room, nursing a half warm beer, my eyes locked on her without even trying. Voices buzzed low around me—someone racked a pool cue against the table, music thudded from the old speaker in the corner—but it all blurred into background noise. All I heard, all I saw, washer.

Zeynep sat at a table with Brenda, Amy, and Fiona, slowly running her fingertips over the wood grain like she could feel the stories carved into it. Her face was soft with concentration, listening to Brenda talk about something I couldn’t catch.

The bruises had faded into ghostly smudges, a reminder but no longer a statement. Her lips weren’t split anymore. Her eyes—those brown, unguarded eyes—watched the room like she was waking up from a nightmare and realizing it had only been that... just a dream.

Those eyes found me. Held me there, no words, just the kind of pull that made the world go quiet.

My heart twisted in a way I wasn’t built for. That same damned coil that had started the night I dragged her broken body out of that van, wrapping itself around my ribs, pulling tighter every time shetrustedme with those eyes.

I ripped my gaze away, setting the beer bottle down hard enough that the dull thud cracked through the air.

What the hell was I doing?

She's still healing, that's all. That’s the reason I’m watching. Making sure she's okay. Just looking out for her.

But the lie didn’t even hold for a breath.

I dragged a hand down my face, the scrape of my beard rough against my palm, trying to ground myself. I should’ve handed her care off days ago. Let Brenda or Fiona step in. I was a fucked up wreck barely holding my own shit together and for her sake I needed to back off.

But every time I thought about putting distance between us, every time I made the decision to walk...she wouldlook at melike that. Like I wasn’t the monster I knew damn well I was. Like I wassomething better.

And every time, I stayed.

Not because she needed me. Because Iwantedto be the man she needed.

The man she could trust.

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