Page 164 of Mystic's Sunrise

Dragging myself forward inch by inch, I ignored the way the concrete scraped at my skin. I could feel blood on my knees, feel the burn in my arms, but none of it mattered. The only thing that did was reaching him.

I got close—closer than I thought I could—before the binds at my ankles yanked taut and slammed me to a stop. I lay there,breathing hard, the floor biting into my side, tears burning behind my eyes.

“Please…”

And then, a flicker—his fingers twitched, subtle but real, followed by a low, guttural sound that told me the pain had found him too.

His head lifted, slowly, like every inch took effort. Hair fell across his face in damp, tangled strands. One eye was nearly swollen shut, but the other found me—wild and clear, burning through the haze.

“Zey…?”

Relief crashed through me, dizzy and raw. “I’m here. I’m okay.”

His gaze swept the room—first the chains, then me, then the locked steel door—and just like that, the beast in him snapped awake.

“Son of a bitch!” he snarled, his voice thunder rolling off the walls. He jerked at the chains violently, the steel groaning beneath the strain of his fury. “Who the fuck did this?!”

“Mystic—”

But he didn’t hear me. He was already lost to the rage, twisting against the restraints with everything he had, muscles flexing, jaw clenched so hard I thought he might crack his teeth. The veins in his arms stood out like cables, his whole body a weapon trying to break loose.

“Get these fuckin’ things off me!” he roared into the emptiness. “You hear me? You come near her again and I’ll kill you!”

“Mystic!” I snapped, louder than I meant to.

He froze, chest heaving, sweat and blood streaking down the side of his face as he turned his gaze back to me.

“You’ll hurt yourself,” I said, trying to steady my voice. “You’re bleeding.”

His eyes locked on mine, and for a moment, the storm in him pulled back just a fraction.

“Did they hurt you?” he asked, his voice dropping to something rougher—lower, threaded with fear he couldn’t hide.

“No,” I said quickly. “Just the crash. I don’t think they meant to kill us. Not yet.”

He clenched his jaw, fury radiating off him like heat. “No… they meant to cage us.”

We were quiet after that, afraid to talk about what was going to happen, because then it would make it real, not a dream like I prayed.

Then he spoke again, voice like broken gravel. “We’re gettin’ out of here. You understand me?”

I nodded, because there was no version of this where I didn’t believe him.

His head dropped back against the wall, his chest rising and falling with slow, ragged breaths, each one a battle he was trying to win. Blood trickled down his jaw in a thin, dark line, and his fingers curled into fists like he was holding himself together by force.

“I swear to God,” he said quietly, teeth gritted, “if they touch you, I’ll rip their fuckin’ hearts out with my teeth.”

My own chest tightened, not with fear—but with rage of my own. Seeing him like this—caged, wounded, helpless—it cut deeper than anything I’d felt in years.

But what hurt most wasn’t the blood or the chains or even the room we were trapped in.

It was the look in his eyes.

He wasn’t just furious. He was drowning in guilt.

“You have to stop,” I said softly. “You’re going to dislocate your shoulder. Or worse.”

He didn’t answer, didn’t even look at me. His eyes stayed on the ceiling, unblinking, jaw clenched hard enough to splinter bone.