Page 168 of Mystic's Sunrise

“You needed me,” I said, but the words came out thin, weak, smaller than I meant them to.

He picked up his gun, not pointing it, not even looking at it, just holding it like an extension of his hand, an afterthought.

“I don’t need anyone,” he said, calm and detached. “And once she’s dead, and your little war hero bleeds out tryin’ to save her, my debt’s paid.”

I stared at him, mouth dry, heart thudding like it was ready to break bone.

“You promised—”

“I said what I had to say,” he cut in, his voice louder now, crueler. “You think you’re some kind of femme fatale? Some dark widow who bends men with sex and sympathy?” He took a step closer, eyes locked on mine like he wanted me to see just how little I meant to him. “You’re just another snake who thinks her pussy’s a weapon.”

I flinched, and he smiled.

“You gave me what I wanted,” he said, quiet now. “You wanted revenge. You got it. He’s suffering. She’s about to die. But don’t start thinkin’ that buys you anything more than silence.”

He took another step, closer still, the gun in his hand.

“You push me, Chelsea? You won’t walk away from this either.”

My breath caught in my throat.

He turned his back on me like I was already gone. Calm. Collected. Dismissing me without another word.

And that’s when it hit me.

I’d never been the one pulling the strings.

I wasn’t holding the leash.

I was wearing it.

And he’d just started to tighten it.

CHAPTER NINETY-ONE

JASON’S FOOTSTEPS SOUNDEDacross the concrete, each onedeliberate, each one heavier than the last, as he paced slow, measured circles around her like a predator savoring the kill. There was no rush in his stride, no urgency, just the steady confidence of a man who believed he already owned the outcome.

And Zeynep…

She wasn’t even looking at him.

Her eyes stayed locked on me.

Her body was twisted on the floor, wrists bound behind her back, her frame slumped sideways against the filth. Bloodstained the corner of her mouth, and her hair—wild and tangled with sweat, dirt, and blood—fanned out like a halo of ruin. But her face was calm. Too calm.

I knew that look. I’d worn it once too—when you stop fighting in your mind long before your body gives up. When you accept that the pain is coming and start figuring out how to survive it.

Jason crouched beside her, his voice dropping to something soft and vile. “You remember what I said, don’t you?”

She didn’t answer.

He reached out, brushing a blood-matted strand of hair from her cheek, the movement slow, almost gentle, so damn wrong it made bile rise in my throat.

“I used to watch you,” he murmured, the words slick and low like oil spreading across water. “Back when you belonged to Drago. You were Drago’s favorite little plaything, weren’t you? Walking around like the rest of us were beneath you, like we weren’t good enough to touch you. Like we were animals.”

Zeynep swallowed hard, lips trembling, but she didn’t flinch, didn’t give him the satisfaction of a reaction.

“I was there the night Rory died,” he went on, his voice thick with venom. “I saw his eyes. Saw the fear. He was shaking right before Drago put a bullet between them.”