Page 112 of Mystic's Sunrise

It wasn’t healing. Not yet.

But it was heat.

And that meant there was still something in me worth protecting.

Something still burning.

CHAPTER SIXTY-FIVE

I SAT STIFFLYin the leather chair, my back straight,spine aching with tightness I refused to acknowledge. My nails tapped rhythmically against the polished surface of the desk, a steady tick that matched the pounding in my head. I was waiting—not for answers, because I already knew them—but for the moment this idiot across from me finally said it out loud.

That I was owed something.

That Kain Blackwood, after all the years I gave him, all the shit I tolerated, all the nights I listened while he screamed through nightmares that weren’t mine to carry—owed me.

I had stood by him, looked at that god awful face every single day. I was the one who cleaned up after the rage, who told theVA reps what he couldn’t, who whispered him back into himself when the war came clawing through his skin. I didn’t run. He did. One day I came home and that asshole had taken off with Adly and Calder.

And now—because he wanted to play house with some wide-eyed, broken little stray who didn’t know him like I did—I was supposed to walk away? Quietly?

Not a goddamn chance.

The lawyer across from me, some smug, balding man in a department store suit, let out a breath and leaned back in his chair with all the world weary drama of someone who thought they were smarter than the room.

“Mrs. Blackwood—”

“What do I get?” I cut in, to the point and unflinching. “What does that bastard owe me?”

He didn’t flinch. Just gave me that same dull, practiced expression, like he’d seen too many women sitting in this exact chair, ready to go to war. He adjusted the papers in front of him before speaking again.

“Here’s the issue,” he said, in that maddeningly calm tone. “Because your husband was medically discharged and is receiving VA disability compensation, that income is classified as protected. It’s not considered marital property under federal law, and therefore, it cannot be divided in divorce proceedings.”

I blinked.

I heard every word, but they felt like they were coming from underwater, muffled and slow, like the current of the room had shifted and left me struggling to keep up.

“What?” My voice was calm—too calm.

He shifted in his seat again, folding his hands neatly over the file. “VA disability benefits are exempt from asset division. You’re entitled to a portion of jointly owned property—vehicles,your home, anything acquired during the marriage—but his disability pay is off limits.”

I stared at him, the words clicking into place slowly, painfully.

“You’re telling me,” I said, dragging each word like it was made of nails, “that after all these years—after everything I gave that man—I walk away with nothing?”

His mouth tightened into a thin line. “If he’s also receiving military retirement—”

“He’s not,” I snapped, cutting him off before he could dangle any false hope. “And if he is, it’s not the kind I can touch.”

He hesitated, but he didn’t deny it. “Then… no,” he said, voice quiet now. “You won’t be entitled to any portion of his benefits.”

The air in the room turned thick, pressing against my chest, making it hard to breathe.

I sat perfectly still, gripping the arms of the chair until the leather creaked beneath my fingers, nails digging in as the truth hit me like a freight train.

“So, that’s it?” I whispered. “I get the scraps? I just walk away with a worn-down house and no way to keep my life afloat?”

“You may still be able to pursue spousal support,” he offered, tone cautious, like he knew it wouldn’t help. “But given that his only verifiable income is VA disability, a judge is unlikely to grant it.”

I swallowed hard, my throat dry and raw. I knew he was somehow funneling money he earned from the club, but I hadn’t been able to trace it.