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CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

THE SMELL HITS you first, sweat, sex, smoke, and blood. Not fresh blood, but dried and faint, caught beneath someone’s nails or crusted into a scab beneath a ring. The whole room reeked of violence. This was the kind of place where monsters grinned wide and no one dared tell them to stop.

A bitch screamed near the back—not in fear, but high on whatever she’d snorted, grinding on a brother’s lap while he played with her tits. One of my brothers knocked a guy to the floor over a bet gone sideways, boot to his ribs before anyone could ask a single question. Not that anyone did. Why would they? This was Dragon Fire. Not a family. A fucking kingdom. And I sat at the top.

But tonight, it all tasted like ash.

I didn’t touch the bottle beside me. Didn’t even glance at the sweet butt kneeling at my feet, eager and waiting for a nod she’d never get. I let her stay there, not for her sake, but because it reminded the others that I still owned the room, even if my head was somewhere else entirely.

Because my head? It was with her. Zeynep.

She was gone, but not lost. I knew exactly where she was. I knew who helped her—Lucy, that little mouthy bitch who had no idea the hell she’d invited by turning Zeynep against me. I should’ve snuffed her out the second I caught wind of the whispers, but I didn’t. I let Zeynep keep her. Let her talk, let her laugh, let her pretend she had a life outside of me. I even thought the warning I gave Zeynep about Lucy would be enough. Another mistake. A soft one. It won’t happen again.

I pulled from my cigarette, smoke curling as slow and steady as the fury sitting deep in my gut. She’s tucked away now, somewhere quiet. Hiding. Healing. Thinking. And the worst part, she thinks she’s free. That’s the real fucking joke.

I wonder if she thinks about my hands, my voice, the way I made her feel when I was inside her. And then, the wondering turns to rage, because what if someone else is whispering to her now? What if some bastard is brushing her hair back, touching her face, trying to convince her he deserves her?

She doesn’t belong to anyone but me. She never did, even before she knew it. And if some soft-hearted fucker thinks he can erase what’s already written into her bones, I’ll make sure he understands—painfully, permanently—that her story starts and ends with me. I’ll bury him in pieces and make her watch.

Zeynep’s not like any bitch I’ve ever known. She burned the day I found her—quiet fire, not the kind that dances, but the kind that smolders and scars. She had soft smiles and sad eyes, and she was mine the second I laid eyes on her. I didn’t just keep her, I protected her, loved her, gave her everything. And now she runs? Like I didn’t bleed for her? Like I didn’t almost die trying to make her life better?

She was waiting for someone to take care of her. And I did. I still do. Every scar she bears is a mark of survival, and every one of them binds her to me.

Fucking Lucy!

That bitch better enjoy her last days on earth. I’ve been dreaming of the ways I’ll end her. All I need is the chance, and I swear to God, it’s coming.

I stood, and the girl at my feet flinched, stumbling backward as I walked away from the party without a word. Let them drink, let them fight, let them fuck. They’d still be there in the morning, hungover, bloodstained, loyal. Or scared. Didn’t matter which. Fear worked just as well.

My boots thudded through the hallway, the music fading behind me like a dying heartbeat. I didn’t bother with the light when I stepped into my room. I didn’t need it. My steps moved to the closet in the corner—the one nobody touched unless they had a death wish. Inside, behind stacked boxes and forgotten club ledgers, sat a small cedar chest. It wasn’t locked, but no one would ever be stupid enough to open it. Not if they wanted to keep their hands.

I crouched and opened the lid slowly. The scent hit me the same way it always did—faint, floral, the last ghost of her perfume soaked into the fabric folded neatly on top. Zeynep’s scarf. My thumb ran over the edge, soft and worn from the way she used to twist it between her fingers when she was nervous. I’d watched her do it more times than I could count. Always quiet. Always thinking. She never knew I kept it.

Beneath the scarf was her hairbrush. Black. Curved. There were still a few strands tangled in the bristles—long and red, like silk kissed by sunlight. I should’ve tossed it. Should’ve burned everything she left behind. But I didn’t. Because this? This was proof. Proof she’d been mine. Proof she still was.

And that was enough to let the rage settle in my gut just long enough for the thoughts to come in clear.

I clenched the brush in my hand and pictured her again, head down, barefoot on cold floors, brushing her hair while humming that quiet Turkish tune she always clung to like it could save her. Annem seni bekliyor. She told me once it meant “Mother is waiting for you.” I never figured out if it was a memory or a warning. She looked so damn sad when she said it.

She doesn’t need her mother. She doesn’t need friends. She needs me—not in the fragile way people mean when they say “need.” No, Zeynep needs the truth carved back into her soul. She needs the rhythm of my voice in her head again, needs to feel the weight of my hands to remember who gave her fire a place to burn. And if someone’s trying to rewrite that truth, if some asshole is slipping soft lies into her ears while pretending he’s her salvation?

Then he’ll die screaming.

I placed the scarf back into the chest, closed the lid carefully, and rose to my feet. It wouldn’t be long now. Lucy wouldn’t stay quiet. That bitch was never built to keep her mouth shut, not for long. And Zeynep?

She’ll learn, same as everyone else has. My love doesn’t loosen—it tightens. It holds.

There’s no leaving Drago. Not when I’ve chosen you.

Not alive.