Page 69 of Mystic's Sunrise

I almost made her mine.

The stars spun slow overhead. Her breath fanned against my jaw. I leaned down, felt the pull of her like gravity—then the night split open. A bottle shattered somewhere beyond the lot. Sharp. Violent. Final.

I stiffened, instincts slamming back into place, and Zeynep felt it too, her body jerking against mine.

Shouting broke out. A bike engine revved, screaming like something dying. I peeled away from her, every nerve raw, my hand already going for my piece. "Inside," I barked, harsh but necessary.

Her eyes—startled but trusting—locked on mine for a split second. She nodded, slipping back toward the porch without a sound.

I turned toward the dark, boots pounding the dirt, heart a live wire sparking in my chest.

The word ripped out of me under my breath, low and bitter. "Fuck."

Just like that, the night wasn’t ours anymore.

It belonged to blood again.

***

MY HAND GRIPPEDmy piece, as my pulsespiked, my muscles tight. I moved, out the door and into the dark, boots hitting dirt as my eyes scanned around looking for the cause.

There it was.

A bike. Still warm. Engine dead. The front tire spun slow, lazy, like it didn’t know the rider was gone. That soft whir of rubber against gravel cut through the quiet like a whisper in church.

The body was sprawled beside it. Crumpled. One arm bent wrong beneath him, like it snapped on impact. Blood soaked into the gravel, turning dirt into sludge. The copper stench hit me hard—triggering shit I didn’t wanna see. But I saw it anyway.

Not just blood. Thatsmellof dying. Of war. Of a body cooling.

“Shit,” I muttered, stepping in closer. Gravel crunched under my boots. Too loud in the stillness. “That’s one of ours.”

I knew before I said it. I didn’t need to see the cut, torn at the shoulder. Didn’t need to see the kid’s face, swollen and bloodied, barely recognizable. That knife in his chest told me everything. Handle still slick with red, buried to the hilt like a signature.

Troy.

Barely twenty. Prospect patch not even broken in yet.

Thunder and Bolt were already sweeping the perimeter, weapons drawn, scanning for shadows. Ghosts.

Chain stalked up, fury written all over him. “Anyone see what the fuck happened?” he barked.

I forced the words out. “Gate change. Troy must’ve just rolled up. They came in fast. Left him as a message.”

Bolt’s jaw clenched so tight I thought his fucking teeth might crack. “Yeah, well, I got the fuckin’ message,” he ground out, eyes raking over the road like he could drag vengeance out of the dark.

Behind us, the clubhouse door slammed open, wood on wood, echoing loud. Heavy boots on old steps.

Devil stepped out, face like stone, eyes burning low and red in the shadows. The kind of look that said someone would answer for this.

“What the hell happened?” he asked, too quiet. Calm.

I stood up straight, breath tight in my chest as I stared at the scene in front of me. “Just got here. Doesn’t look good.”

Understatement. The kid was dead. Nothing good about that.

I crouched, fingers brushing Troy’s cut, soaked through with blood. His patch was nearly unrecognizable. Just a wet, red rag now. Then I felt it—paper. Crumpled. Stuffed deep in the inside pocket.

I pulled it free and shoved it toward Devil. Didn’t even wanna hold the damn thing.

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