Page 99 of Mystic's Sunrise

I exhaled hard and shoved both hands through my hair, letting the guilt wrap tight around my ribs like a noose. “Yeah, well. Congratulations. You were right. I was wrong. And now I’ve lost her.”

That wiped the smugness clean off their faces. They didn’t mean to be assholes—they were trying to cut the tension—but this wasn’t the time for it. I didn’t need jokes. I needed Zeynep.

For a moment, none of us said a word. The wind picked up, pushing the scent of marsh and pine through the air. Somewhere on the other side of the clubhouse wall, someone laughed. Loud. Carefree. Like my world hadn’t just imploded.

Chain let out a slow breath, his voice rough with empathy. “She’s not gone, man. Not really. She’s just hurt.”

Devil sighed, “Can’t say I blame her. Not after what she saw. We warned you this would blow up if you didn’t get ahead of it.”

“I fuckin’ know,” I snapped, louder than I meant to. My pulse thudded behind my ribs like a hammer. “You think I don’t know that? I should’ve told her. Should’ve handled it like a man instead of lettin’ Chelsea screw with my head one more damn time.”

Devil didn’t flinch. “So why didn’t you?”

My jaw locked up. I shifted on my feet, the gravel crunching under my boots as my hip flared with pain, an old injury that always came back to remind me how broken I still was when stress got high. And this? This was high.

Chain narrowed his eyes. “She still fuckin’ with your head? Making threats?”

I didn’t answer. I didn’t need to. The silence was loud enough.

They both knew.

Those fucking tapes. Chelsea had recorded everything back then—every outburst, every nightmare, every damn second I wasn’t in control. Just back from overseas, raw and bleeding inside, and she’d kept those recordings like trophies. Like insurance. A way to trap me in the past and keep her claws in me forever.

Proof I was dangerous. Proof I’d never be free.

And still, Zeynep… she never looked at me like I was broken. I remembered the first time her fingers brushed the scars on my face. She didn’t flinch. Didn’t pull away or ask for the story. She just saw me. Not the damage. Not the history. Just… me. Like she’d known pain, too, and wasn’t afraid of mine.

And I let that slip through my hands.

Devil clapped a hand on my shoulder—heavy and solid. “Then fix it. End it. You’ve let that woman own too much of your life already.”

I nodded once, sharp and grim. “I did. She’s gone.”

Chain lifted an eyebrow. “Gone how?”

I smirked despite myself, the bitterness curling on my tongue. “Not buried, if that’s what you’re asking.”

Devil huffed a dry chuckle. “Well, that’s something. Cleanup would’ve been a bitch.”

Chain grinned. “Yeah, but we’d’ve helped you with it.”

I shook my head. “Appreciate the sentiment, but no. I told her I’m done. She’s out of my life for good. I saw a divorce attorney before I went to her place yesterday.”

The words felt like ripping a thorn out of my chest—satisfying but messy, still bleeding underneath. It didn’t fix what was broken. It didn’t bring Zeynep back.

I rolled my shoulders and let out a long breath. “I’ve gotta talk to her.”

Neither of them stopped me. No lectures. No warnings. Just a nod from each of them.

I turned and headed inside.

The hallway stretched longer than I remembered, every step loud in the quiet. Overhead, one of the lights flickered. I passed the bar, music played low behind the walls, some old rock track I couldn’t name, couldn’t focus on.

When I reached her door, I hesitated. My hand lifted and hovered there for a second. Then I knocked.

Nothing.

“Zeynep. It’s me.”