Page 72 of Mystic's Sunrise

She stared at me for a beat, then—softly—“I was brought up to think love was supposed to keep you safe.”

“It’s supposed to,” I said, voice thick. “But people twist it. Use it like a chain. I know somethin’ about that.”

Her gaze didn’t leave mine. “You loved someone once?”

I hesitated, then nodded. “Not like you’re thinkin’, not by a long stretch but I get you.”

She looked at me, then, with that special look reserved only for me. “You’re such a good man.”

“Not always,” I said, dropping my head.

Her breath hitched. Just a little, and then—slow, gentle—she reached out. Her fingers brushed the scarred side of my face. Never with fear. Never with pity. Just... a touch. But with her it felt like my fucked up face didn’t exist.

“You make me feel normal again,” she whispered. “Like no evil can touch me.”

I didn’t pull away. Didn’t even breathe.

“It can’t,” I murmured.

Her eyes didn’t drop. And in that quiet, shadowed room, something even deeper passed between us.

I was still truly and royally fucked.

CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

MYSTIC DIDN’T SPEAKfor a long time last night after ourconversation. We just lay down in bed and held each other.

And maybe that was what I liked about him most.

He didn’t fill silence with noise.

I watched as he put on his boots, and stood to start his morning, he almost leaned down, and I swear he was going to kiss me but pulled back. “I’m going to get some coffee, you want anythin’?”

“No, I’m good,” I replied watching him walk out the door. He knew I wasn’t big on eating breakfast, a habit of drawn fromcaptivity under Big John Ricca. Eating was a privilege under his care, meals were few and far between.

I try never to think of my time there, but the memories sometimes surface in the oddest moments.

Like right now.

I swallowed hard, the memories already turning bitter on my tongue. My fingers clenched the blanket as my mind pulled me back to that first night in America. The way the air felt—too cold, too bitter. Everything smelled different, like motor oil and cigarettes and something sour.

They shoved me into a room that locked from the outside. No windows. Just four walls painted in peeling gray. I remember the light bulb above flickering like it couldn’t make up its mind. I sat in the corner, knees to my chest, too afraid to cry because crying made them laugh.

I didn’t understand what they said, not all of it. Just the tone, the cruelty in their voices as they shoved at me. They barked orders, kicked the door when I didn’t respond fast enough. The man they called Ricca smiled when I flinched. He liked that.

The food—when it came—was thrown on the floor. Sometimes just a piece of bread. Sometimes nothing for days. I learned fast not to ask questions. Learned faster how to disappear in plain sight.

That’s why I don’t eat in the mornings.

It’s not just habit. It’s memory. It’s fear. It’s the sound of that first door slamming shut behind me, and the scream I bit down so hard I tasted blood.

And maybe… maybe it’s why I cling to Mystic the way I do.…because even in silence—he never slammed the door.

He justsat in it with me.

A soft knock pulled me from the memory like a hand tugging me out of cold water.

I blinked, the room coming back into focus, and I pulled the blanket tighter around my shoulders as I stood. My feet hit the floor lightly, quietly—always quietly—and I moved to the door, heart still thudding with echoes of the past.