Page 117 of Mystic's Sunrise

Devil let out a breath, quiet but full of weight. “She’s been trying to survive since she was sixteen and you can’t force her to talk to you.”

My head dropped. “That’s not what I wanted.”

He shrugged. “Doesn’t matter what you wanted. It matters what shefelt.”

I ran a hand through my hair, every part of me burning with frustration. “She won’t even look at me.”

“Then give her a reason to,” he said simply.

I turned toward him, eyes hard, voice edged. “And how the fuck do I do that?”

He studied me for a moment. And then, just the barest hint of a smirk. “You figure it out, but don’t go forcing shit on her.” His eyes clouded over and he added, “At least she’s alive for you make it right.”

With that, he clapped a hand on my shoulder, gave it one firm squeeze, and walked back toward the clubhouse like he’d said everything that needed saying.

I stayed there in the dark, blood drying on my knuckles, my breath slowing as the weight of his words settled into my bones.

Earn it.

I didn’t know how.

But I was going to figure it the fuck out.

CHAPTER SIXTY-SEVEN

I COULDN’T SLEEP.

Not after what happened in the kitchen.

His voice was still in my ears, low, cracked, frayed at the edges like he was holding something in that wanted to break loose. He stood there, refusing to let me pretend anymore, refusing to let me disappear into silence without a fight.

“Say something,” he’d said, voice thick with ache. “Hate me if you have to. But don’t act like I’m nothing to you.”

And God, it would’ve been easier if I did hate him.

But that was the problem. I didn’t.

And because I didn’t, I had to pretend. I had to act like he didn’t exist, like I hadn’t felt every word like a bruise, like I hadn’t nearly crumbled when I looked in his eyes and saw his regret hanging there, raw and too late.

Because if I let myself feel anything... I’d run straight back into the fire, and I hadn’t survived hell just to set myself ablaze all over again.

Now I sat at the edge of Lucy’s bed, fingers trembling as I reached for the bag she always left cracked open. Inside, tucked beneath a bundle of receipts and a faded flannel shirt, was the purse she didn’t carry anymore.

The one she used to call her “run fund.”

Cash she’d been stashing away for a trip we used to dream about, when things got too hard, when the world felt too close, we would run away to somewhere nothing could touch us.

I swallowed hard, throat tight with shame.

I’ll pay it back.I swear I will.

But the moment my fingers touched the money, guilt slithered up from my gut and wrapped tight around my lungs.

I didn’t count it. Didn’t even look at the amount, because I didn’t deserve to. I shoved the wad into my pocket like it burned, the bile crawling up my throat as I stood.

I hated myself for this.

But staying—staying in this clubhouse, in this air, in those memories—was worse.