Page 105 of Mystic's Sunrise

The cop restraining me didn’t look his way. “Kain Blackwood, you’re under arrest for domestic assault,” he said flatly, already reaching for the Miranda card.

The words echoed, but they didn’t sink in—not at first.

Assault?

Domestic?

It felt like a bad dream, like the kind of nightmare where you move too slow, where nothing makes sense until it’s too late.

My pulse spiked, but I didn’t flinch. I didn’t resist. I let the words pass over me, clung to the rising fury in my gut like it was the only solid thing I had left.

Chelsea had actually done it.

She hadn’t just implied, hadn’t just threatened—she went all in. Filed a report. Called the cops. Set this whole damn thing in motion, and now she wanted me in cuffs, wanted me branded as something I never was.

She was out to destroy me.

“Bullshit,” Chain growled, stepping forward, voice thick with fury. “We all know he didn’t touch that crazy bitch.”

“She filed a report,” the officer snapped, gripping my arm tighter as he led me toward the cruiser’s back door. “Claims he assaulted her tonight—and multiple times in the past. It’s on record. We’re obligated to take him in.”

I could hear Devil behind him, muttering curses under his breath, voice still too low to catch fully but laced with that calm-before-the-storm quality that meant someone was about to regret crossing him.

“Let me guess,” he said, tone lethal. “You’re going on her word alone? No photos? No witnesses? Just a story she spun out of spite?”

The officer didn’t answer. He didn’t need to.

We already knew the answer.

Didn’t matter.

Devil and Chain weren’t just watching this unfold. I knew them. I knew how fast they were calculating—how every move, every lie, every accusation was being measured for its weakness.

They would handle it.

And me?

I didn’t fight the arrest. Didn’t shout or resist or play into the trap she was hoping for.

I let them shove me into the backseat like I was just another statistic on a late shift, stared straight ahead through the windshield as the door slammed shut behind me.

I didn’t blink. I didn’t curse.

But inside, I was burning.

Chelsea thought she’d won. Thought this would break me. Thought this was the final move—the one that would bury me so deep I’d never get out.

She had no idea just how wrong she was.

***

HOLDING CELLS ALWAYSsmelled the same.

A sick mix of sweat, piss, and stale fear—the kind of stink that seeped into concrete and never left. I’d been here before, in places like this. Different towns. Different wars. Same damn feeling.

I leaned back against the cold concrete wall, spine pressed to stone, arms resting loose over my bent knees. My head tipped back until it knocked against the wall with a dull thud. I kept my eyes on the ceiling, breathing slow, letting my pulse even out.

Chelsea probably thought I was in here panicking. Thought I was sweating bullets, pacing in my cell, chewing on my regret.