Page 119 of Mystic's Sunrise

Tucked behind a greasy spoon diner with cracked windows and paint that hadn’t seen a fresh coat in two decades, the place barely held itself together. The neon sign out front buzzed a fading red—VACANCY—a single word blinking like it had given up trying to mean anything more. There was no name, no welcome, no promise of comfort. Just the reminder that there was room here for those looking to get lost.

The woman behind the front desk didn’t bother with eye contact. Her shoulders sagged beneath a threadbare sweater, and her skin looked like it had forgotten sunlight. I handed her the cash—money that wasn’t mine—and gave her a fake name that slipped out of my mouth like a lie I’d practiced. Two minutes later, I couldn’t have repeated it if I tried. She slid the key across the counter without a word, like she’d handed it to a hundred girls before me who were running from something with nowhere left to go.

The room itself was small and tired, like it had survived more than it should have. A single bed sat beneath a warped window, the wallpaper curling at the corners like it was trying to peel away from the life lived here. A bulb buzzed overhead, its flickering light about ready to die.

I closed the door behind me and locked it twice, the sound of the bolt sliding into place oddly satisfying. I checked the windows, then drew the curtains until no light could escape or creep in. I wanted the dark. Needed it to wrap around me and blur the sharp edges of what I’d just done.

Then I sat on the bed—still fully clothed, hands clenched in my lap, spine stiff and aching—and I stayed there, unmoving, my back pressed against the headboard as if that flimsy wall could keep everything else out.

My body wouldn’t stop trembling. My legs were curled to my chest, my chin resting on my knees, and the tension in my shoulders felt permanent. I still felt like I was hiding in the backof Oliver’s car, ducked beneath old jackets, heart pounding so hard I thought it might shake the whole damn vehicle apart.

The room was quiet, but it didn’t matter.

The noise was inside me.

Not voices—memories. Sounds that lived in my bones.

The way Drago said my name like it was his to use. The way Mystic said it like it hurt him to speak. And then my own voice. The one I didn’t use. The one that told me I should’ve stayed quiet. Should’ve never believed I was allowed more.

I pressed my palms to my ears anyway. The silence didn’t help. It never did.

I didn’t cry. The pressure behind my eyes had been there for hours, days even, but nothing came. The tears sat just beneath the surface, waiting. My body didn’t have the strength to let them fall. I was too exhausted to feel anything clearly.

I didn’t want to feel. I wanted to disappear.

But I didn’t vanish. I stayed—solid, aching, haunted.

My thoughts drifted to Lucy. I pictured her waking up, noticing the missing money, her face when she realized it was me, her gut twisting in betrayal. She would tell Spinner, and he’d tellhim,and when he did, he’d come for me.

He would chase what mattered to him—heart first, fury second—but he would come. I knew he would tear the clubhouse apart, rip through every lead, question every soul in this state until he found where I’d gone.

But knowing that didn’t change anything, and I didn’t only leave to hurt him. I didn’t leave to make him chase me. I left because I couldn’t breathe around him anymore, couldn’t find a moment of peace with the way his voice clung to the walls and his memory stained every quiet second I tried to steal for myself.

I sighed heavily as I moved off the bed and went into the small bathroom. The mirror was crooked.

I didn’t want to look, but I did. My eyes looked tired. Not sad. Not angry. Just... empty. The bruises were gone. But sometimes, I still moved like they weren’t. I touched my arm and felt nothing, but I remembered the ache.

I pulled the shirt over my head and padded back over the bed. The blanket scratched, but I wrapped it tight. It made me feel small. Safe. I laid down on the bed and waited for sleep. I didn’t want dreams. Just something close to rest.

CHAPTER SIXTY-EIGHT

SOMETHING WAS WRONG.

Not just a bad feeling, this was heavier. It wrapped around me the second I stepped into the hallway, crawling over my skin like a live wire, squeezing tight around my chest like a vice with every step I took.

The clubhouse had a rhythm. A pulse that never stopped. Even at three a.m., there’d be signs of life—low murmurs from the common room, the clink of a bottle, the occasional outburst over a game, laughter spilling from behind closed doors.

But tonight? Nothing. No sound. No movement. No fucking heartbeat.

My boots thudded against the hardwood, every step echoing louder than it should’ve, like the silence was trying to swallow me whole. I moved down the hall, my eyes locked on one door. Hers.

I stopped, hesitating like a coward who didn’t want to find the truth already clawing at the edges of my gut. She hadn’t looked at me, hadn’t spoken more than a whisper since that night… but she was still here. Breathing. Sleeping behind that door, just out of reach. That had to count for something.

I lifted my hand, knocked once, softly. Waited. Nothing. No footsteps. No rustle of covers.

Something shifted in me, low and sour. The kind of dread that didn’t shout—it whispered. Quiet. Cold. Knowing.

I knocked again, harder this time, my knuckles connecting with the wood like they were trying to force the silence to break. “Zeynep,” I called, voice flat, too rough to be calm but not quite panicked. Not yet.