Page 70 of Mystic's Sunrise

He took it, unfolded it slow, like he already knew who wrote it. His jaw ticked as his eyes scanned the words. Then he read it out loud, voice rough and cold: “This is just the beginning if you don’t back off our shipments and return what belongs to us.”

Silence followed. It felt like even the wind held still.

Spinner let out a bitter laugh, hand dragging through his hair like he wanted to rip it out by the roots. “Let me guess, they want Lucy and Zeynep.”

My fists clenched. Knuckles gone bone white. The rage that lived inside me started to rise—hot and black, like tar in my lungs.

“This wasn’t the cartel,” I said, starting to pace. “This was Dragon Fire.”

Thunder spat off to the side, pacing like a caged dog. “They’re gettin’ real goddamn brave. Droppin’ bodies at our fuckin’ gate now.”

“We should hit back,” Chain snapped. “Hard. Tonight.”

Devil didn’t even blink. Just folded the paper again, like he was loading a round. “Not yet.”

“Not yet?” Bolt’s voice cracked the air like a whip. “They just dumped one of our prospects like fuckin’ trash, and you wanna wait?”

Devil’s glare hit him like a blow. “We wait for Patch to give the signal. I’m not sending men out half-cocked just ‘cause you’re mad. You wanna bleed out, go do it on your own time. I wanna fucking make sure we end them.”

He was right. Even if every bone in my body screamed to retaliate.

I turned back toward the bike, still ticking softly as it cooled in the dark. The smell of rubber and gas clung to the air—familiar. Too familiar.

Blood. Death. War drums in the distance.

And then—movement. From the porch.

Zeynep stood in the doorway, wrapped in that hoodie, arms folded tight over her chest like she was freezing. Her eyes met mine, soft, wide, haunted.

I crossed to her before I even knew I was moving.

“You shouldn’t be out here,” I said, watching her closely.

She didn’t speak. Still couldn’t. But her gaze flicked past me—to the body on the ground—and something changed in her face. Not fear. Not shock. Just this quiet understanding, like she knew what death looked like. Like she’d seen this kind of shit before.

I stepped in close, my hand finding her elbow. “Come on. Let’s get you back inside.”

She nodded, small and slow.

But before I could lead her away, her fingers brushed mine—light as air—and for a second, I forgot about the blood. About Troy. About the war at our gate.

All I saw were her eyes.

They told me she trusted me to protect her.

CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

I NEVER WORRIEDabout getting sleep. Notsince the desert. Not since the noise in my head started screaming louder than any battlefield.

The nightmares used to rip me apart nightly, faces I couldn’t save, screams I couldn’t drown out, blood that wouldn’t wash off no matter how long I stood in the goddamn shower. The VA tossed pills at me like that’d fix what was broken. Some numbed it. Most didn’t touch it.

But lately…it’s been quiet.

Not inside my head, not completely. But the kind of quiet that don’t come from a bottle or a script. The kind that comes from breathing in someone else’s peace.

Zeynep sleeps like she’s waiting for something to go wrong. Curled tight, always facing me, like I might sneak away. But her presence—her steady breath, her warmth next to me—it settles something in me.

I don’t flinch awake anymore. I don’t wake up choking on sand and blood.