Page 78 of Mystic's Sunrise

I could still feel the ghost of his mouth on mine, the way he’d kissed me, slow and careful, like he was memorizing me.I swallowed hard, my fingers tightening around his wrist like I could ground us both to this one fragile moment.

“You’re awake,” his voice rasped against my skin, gravelly and rough from sleep.

I turned slightly, just enough to see him. His hair was messy, his face half lost in the shadows. His eyes, always so guarded, were softer than I’d ever seen them. Like I was something he wanted but wasn’t allowing himself to have.

“Yeah,” I whispered, “sorry I woke you.”

He didn’t answer right away. His gaze flicked over my face, dropping to my mouth—the same mouth he’d kissed hours ago—and I saw the battle flash across his face.

A muscle ticked hard in his jaw. His hand, still trapped against my waist by my fingers, tensed like he was one breath away from pulling back, from putting distance between us.

I couldn’t let him.

Without giving myself time to overthink it, I leaned in, brushing my lips against his scarred jaw, my fingers skimming up to cradle his face. He stiffened—reflex, habit, self-preservation—but he didn’t pull away.

I kissed him. Soft. Certain. Giving him the choice he thought he didn’t have.

“I don’t regret it,” I whispered against his mouth, tasting the hesitation still clinging to him, feeling the fight he was waging with himself.

His hand flexed at my hip, not pulling away now, holding me tighter.

"Zeynep..." My name broke from him in a low, wrecked sound, more plea than warning.

I smiled against his lips, slow and sure. "You’ll have to do better than that if you want me to stop," I breathed.

He groaned low in his chest, like the sound was ripped out of him, and then he was kissing me back—deeper this time, rougher, like he couldn’t help himself anymore.

There was nothing careful about it now. Nothing slow.

Only two people clinging to the one thing that finally, finally felt real.

CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE

HER WORDS KNOCKEDthe air out of me.

You’ll have to do better than that if you want me to stop.

God help me, I didn’t want her to stop.

Not now.

Not ever.

My hand tightened on her hip, thumb grazing bare skin just under the hem of her shirt—my shirt. One of the many I’d let her claim. She looked better in it than I ever had. Looked like she belonged in it. In my bed. In my life.

I swallowed hard, jaw clenching as I fought with myself. I should’ve backed off. Should’ve walked out of this room before I crossed a line I couldn’t uncross. But she looked at me like she already knew I was a lost cause. And chose me anyway. Like she saw the storm inside me and wasn’t afraid to get pulled under.

Fuck.

I shifted, moving over her slowly, one hand braced beside her head. She didn’t flinch. Didn’t look away. Her breath caught, just once, but her eyes stayed locked on mine. Unblinking. Sure.

“I’ve been tryin’ to do the right thing,” I said, my voice thick, dragging with gravel and need. “Tried to keep this clean. Keep you clean.”

Her fingers found the hem of my shirt and slipped beneath it, dragging up along my ribs. My skin jumped at the contact, the heat of her hand lighting me up from the inside out.

“I’m not afraid of you, Mystic.”

Jesus. Goddamn she wrecked me.

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