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CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

SLEEP DIDN’T COME easy most nights.

Didn’t come at all tonight.

I sat on the edge of my bed, rolling a coin between my fingers, the cold metal flipping and catching the light from the bedside lamp.

My head was a mess, thoughts tangled like a knot. It had been hours since I saw her—felt her touch, heard her words, saw her looking at me like I was someone worth loving. Touched me like I was a whole man.

Like my face wasn’t a twisted mess.

A knock at the door cut through the silence. Light. Hesitant. I knew who it was before I even stood.

I pulled the door open, and there she was.

Zeynep.

She stood in the dark hallway, barefoot, the oversized sweatshirt hanging loose around her frame.

My sweatshirt.

She clutched the ends of the sleeves in her hands like she was thinking twice about being here.

But she didn’t leave.

"Couldn't sleep?"

She shook her head. "No."

Her accent softened the word, made it quieter.

I exhaled through my nose and stepped back. "Come in."

She hesitated for half a second before slipping past me, her presence filling the space the way it always seemed to.

I shut the door, watching as she moved toward the bed but turned before she reached it. Her fingers ran along the edge of the desk, trailing over the worn wood like she was memorizing it.

"Somethin' wrong?" I asked, crossing my arms.

She nodded, but her eyes said something else.

"I keep thinking about today," she murmured, glancing up at me. "Being outside. Breathing fresh air." She exhaled, like she was trying to hold onto that moment. "I have not felt free in such a long time."

My throat tightened. I knew what she meant. More than she realized.

"You're free now," I said, my voice quieter.

She looked at me for a long moment, then shook her head. "Not yet."

The weight of that truth settled between us. She was here, but Drago was still out there, still holding the strings she was trying so hard to cut.

She took a step closer, her gaze searching mine. "I do not know why, but..." she hesitated, swallowing. "I feel like I was meant to meet you... to know you."

Something in me cracked. I felt it. A slow, splitting ache.

I was moving before I could think better of it, closing the space between us. I didn’t touch her, but damn if I didn’t want to. My hand lifted halfway before I caught myself, caught the need that nearly tore free from me.

"You believe in fate?" I asked, low, rough. "That I was meant to find you?"

Her lips parted slightly, her breath catching. Then, just like outside, she reached out. Her fingers brushed my cheek, hesitant, warm, real.

I let my hand hover near her waist for one reckless second, so close I could feel the heat of her skin through the fabric. One more breath, and I would’ve pulled her in. Held her. Tasted her.

But before I could move, before I could ruin everything, a sharp knock slammed into the door.

"Church," came Devil’s voice from the other side. "Now."

Zeynep’s hand dropped. The space between us cooled like someone had thrown a bucket of ice water over the room.

I clenched my jaw, forcing a slow exhale before looking at her.

"You should get some sleep," I said, nodding toward the bed. "You can crash here if you want. If it makes you feel better."

She nodded, but something about the way she looked at me—something raw, something unspoken —told me this wasn’t over.

Not even close.