Page 127 of Mystic's Sunrise

“Any word on Zeynep?” he asked the bartender.

The name froze me. Not the way someone calling your name makes you turn, but the way hearing your ex-lover’s name in bed with someone else stops your breath.

I turned my head slowly.

He was tall, broad shoulders, thick neck, clean cut in the way that didn’t fit, but still dirty in the way that said it hadn’t stuck. The leather cut stretched across his back readDragoin bold, stitched letters on the front, and the look in his eyes was unmistakable.

Obsession. Territory. A predator scenting blood in the water.

He wanted her. And not just in the way Kain had, Drago didn’t look like a man who fell in love. He looked like a man whotookwhat he believed was his.

I watched him from the shadows for another minute, weighing my options, letting the edges of a new idea form in the back of my mind.

I hadn’t found her for sure. But maybe I didn’t need to, not if I could use someone else to do it for me.

I stood, walked toward the bar like I had every right to be there, hips swaying just enough to be noticed without looking desperate. He didn’t look at me until I was nearly beside him, his eyes surprisingly disinterested. What the fuck did that bitch have in her veins to keep men tied to her?

“I have information you want to hear,” I said, letting the words roll off my tongue like honey laced with glass.

He raised an eyebrow, sizing me up like a man deciding whether I was worth his time, or a threat.

“I know her,” I continued. “You’re looking for Zeynep... maybe I can help you find her.”

For a second, he didn’t move. Just stared.

Then his mouth curved, the kind of smile that didn’t reach his eyes. I’d have to be careful with this one, he was dangerous.

“Start talking,” he demanded.

CHAPTER SEVENTY-ONE

THE RUMBLE OFthe motorcycle reverberated through me,relentless, thrumming deep in my bones as we cut through the dark streets of Savannah. The wind slapped against my face, whipping my hair back in wild strands that stung my skin, but it wasn’t the wind that made it hard to breathe. It washim.Drago’s scent surrounded me—leather worn from time, smoke still clinging to his cut, and that cologne I’d never forgotten. The kind meant to be remembered even after he was gone. It wrapped around me like a noose, each breath tightening the chain a little more.

His hands gripped the handlebars with familiar confidence, large and sure, like nothing in this world could knock him off balance. He rode like he owned the night. Like taking me was just a formality, and maybe it was. Because the moment he found me—reallyfoundme—I’d known there wouldn’t be another chance to escape.

So I did the only thing I could. I played the part.

Drago needed me to be grateful. To look at him like I was relieved. Like the weeks I’d spent away from him had been nothing but a nightmare I could finally wake from. If I could sell that illusion, maybe no one else would get hurt.

The bike slowed as we turned down a narrow road, the shadows swallowing us whole. At the end stood a warehouse, weathered and worn, but alive with the dull thrum of bass and muffled voices. The Dragon Fire MC was here. I could see them through the cracked windows, men drinking, laughing, moving through the haze like they hadn’t noticed the shift in the air.

Drago kicked the stand down and slid off, one arm already wrapping around my waist before I could move. His grip was firm, familiar, pulling me tight against his side. I followed, forced a small smile as he brushed a strand of hair from my face, fingers gentle in that way he always used before reminding me who I belonged to. His hazel eyes scanned my face, possessive and hungry, the kind of hunger that didn’t ask permission.

“I missed you, baby,” he said, his voice thick with satisfaction, like winning was always inevitable.

I nodded, tilting my face up just enough to let him believe I felt the same. His smirk deepened, and he slung his arm around my shoulders, guiding me through the door like he was walking in with a trophy.

The second we stepped inside, the air changed. Thick with smoke, sweat, mold, and the ghosts of a hundred bad memories. Music blared from a worn speaker in the corner, muffled andraw. Men hovered near the bar, others clustered around the pool table, laughter bouncing between the walls. But none of it registered, not really.

Because she was standing there.

Dark curls. Blood red lips. Eyes burning like wildfire.

The rage pouring off her wasn’t quiet. It filled the space like gasoline waiting for a match. It was a repeat of my first night at a Dragon Fire clubhouse.

“You have got to be kidding me,” she spat, her voice sharp, slicing through the air. She didn’t know what she was bringing down on herself, clearly new, clearly stupid.

Drago’s arm tightened slightly around my shoulder, but he didn’t speak. He didn’t have to. His silence was a loaded gun, and everyone in the room knew it. Everyone but her.