Page 44 of Mystic's Sunrise

Lesson number two: trust your gut if you want to stay breathing.

I flicked the butt to the ground, grinding it out under my boot. Listened. Waited.

"Thought I might find you out here," a voice drawled behind me.

I didn’t startle, but my hand hovered half a second too long near my belt before I recognized Devil’s slow, easy stride.

He stepped up beside me, dragging a hand through his short hair, his own cigarette already burning between his fingers. Devil only smoked when his past was spooking him. "You look like you're waiting for something," he said.

I shrugged, eyes still on the dark. "Just needed some air," I lied.

Devil snorted under his breath, low and knowing. "Ain’t much air to breathe tonight, brother."

He wasn’t wrong. The humidity was thick enough to drown in.

We stood there a minute, shoulder to shoulder, not speaking. The way men did when there minds were too fucking heavy. Finally, Devil shifted, tapping ash off the end of his smoke.

"You feel it too?" he asked, voice casual but edged.

I glanced at him out of the corner of my eye. "What?"

He shrugged one shoulder. "Something’s off. Something’s watching."

The tension that had been coiled tight inside me pulled tighter. I didn’t answer. Didn’t have to.

Devil blew out a slow breath, smoke curling into the heavy dark. "Stay alert, brother," he muttered, before pushing off and heading back inside.

I stayed there a minute longer, staring into the black.

I didn’t need Devil’s warning. I already knew.

Something was out there.

And whatever it was...it was planning to strike.

CHAPTER THIRTY

THE KITCHEN SMELLEDof sizzling meat and warm butter,thick in the air, clinging to my nose. The steady clatter of pots and pans mixed with the murmur of conversation drifting from the common room.

The scent, the noise, it was different from what I had known before. Louder. Heavier.

American.

Josie stood at the stove, stirring a pan of something rich and heavy, his sleeves rolled up, tattooed forearms flexing with every easy movement. He didn’t look like he had any businessin a kitchen—too handsome, too rugged—but he moved like someone who belonged there. Confident. Comfortable in the heat, in the bustle, in the noise.

I sat at the counter, curling my fingers around the rim of a warm mug of tea.

"You use too much oil," I said, my voice soft but teasing.

He snorted without looking up. "Trust me, I know. But my brothers keep remindin’ me this is a biker clubhouse, not some fancy café." He tilted the bottle again, letting another heavy stream of oil hiss into the pan.

I wrinkled my nose. "In Turkey, we cook with olive oil. Not... whatever that is."

Josie gave me a sideways glance, smirking. "Vegetable oil."

I took a slow sip of my tea, feeling the warmth slide down into my chest. "It drowns the flavor," I murmured.

He chuckled, flipping the meat with a flick of his wrist. "For this it works. But I know what you’re sayin’." He threw me a curious look over his shoulder. "What’s your favorite meal? One you miss the most?"

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