Page 110 of Mystic's Sunrise

And walked away.

No scene. No explosion. No drama. Just silence.

But that silence cut deeper than anything else could’ve.

I stood there, frozen, fists clenching and unclenching at my sides.

I could go to her.

Could follow her into that quiet hallway and say the things I should’ve said from the beginning.

Iwantedto.

God, I wanted to.

But I didn’t know if I had the right.

Not yet.

CHAPTER SIXTY-FOUR

I HADN’T LEFTthe room in two days.

The air inside felt heavier with each passing hour, stagnant and warm like breath held too long. My skin was tight with it, like it didn’t quite fit right anymore, like grief had warped the shape of me from the inside out.

The only sound was the fan on the ceiling, its rhythmic hum interrupted every few minutes by a weak rattle, as if it were struggling to hold itself together. I could relate. The two of us, creaking along, pretending we still worked like we were supposed to, pretending we weren’t falling apart.

I didn’t cry anymore. Not because the pain had faded—no, that would’ve been a kindness. It was because the pain had sunk so deep into my bones that even the tears had given up, too tired to rise.

My fingers toyed with the edge of the blanket wrapped around my legs, twisting it slowly, over and over, until the threads pulled taut and threatened to snap. The world outside this room kept moving—the roar of bikes and laughter filtered up from the clubhouse, the sun dragged itself across the sky and back again, but in here, everything had stopped.

A quiet knock came at the door, just two taps, and then it creaked open without waiting for permission.

Brenda stepped inside, balancing a mug of tea in one hand, her brows drawn low and firm like she’d already braced herself for the resistance she knew was coming.

“I know you’re mad,” she said plainly, her voice matter-of-fact as she shut the door behind her. “Hell, if I were in your shoes, I’d be pissed too. But you can’t keep rottin’ in here like the world ended.”

I didn’t respond. I kept my eyes on the blanket, on the twisted threads.

She crossed the room, set the mug down on the nightstand with a quiet clink, and folded her arms.

“You’re actin’ like Mystic locked you in a cage,” she continued, her voice gaining an edge. “But I’ve watched that man lose sleep over you. Miss runs. Miss work. Watch over you while you were healin’.”

The words landed hard, and though I didn’t want to give her anything, I flinched. Barely. But she caught it. Brenda always did.

She moved closer, her sandals scuffing quietly across the floor. “I’ve seen a lot of men in this life. Men who say the right things until they get what they want. Men who care more aboutthe next ride than the woman standin’ in front of them. And yeah, Mystic? He’s got a past. But he’s not one of them.”

I turned my face toward the window, away from her, away from the truth I wasn’t ready to swallow. There was no sunlight today—only clouds pressed thick against the glass, casting everything in soft gray shadow. It matched how I felt.

Yes, I was wallowing in pity. I knew that. I knew I was curled up in a pit of my own pain and bitterness, but knowing it didn’t make it easier to crawl out.

I wasn’t like Lucy. I wasn’t like Brenda.

They had steel in their spines and fire in their blood. I… I had survived. But surviving had cost me pieces of myself I was still trying to find.

Since the night I was taken, since the world I knew was ripped away and replaced by fear, I’d barely been able to breathe without bracing. And just when I thought I could heal—just when I started to believe something good might grow from all that ruin—Mystic made me believe in him.

And then he shattered me.