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CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

SLEEP WOULDN’T COME .

I lay on Mystic’s bed, the mattress carrying the scent of leather, soap, and him . It wrapped around me like a second skin, making it impossible to forget where I was— whose bed I was in.

The sheets were too warm. The air too heavy, thick with things I hadn’t spoken. My heart hadn't settled since I crossed the threshold into this room, since his voice wrapped around me with that quiet, dangerous promise.

You believe in fate.

I did. But did he?

Was I just someone to protect? A burden he hadn’t figured out how to set down?

I turned onto my back, the creak of the mattress under me loud in the heavy quiet. The small lamp beside the bed cast a soft glow across the room, making the shadows feel closer. Like they were pressing down on me.

I had spent years locked inside fear, my world reduced to nothing but pain and obedience. Now I was here, free from Drago, but not free from what still lived inside me.

And then there was Mystic.

I pressed my fingers to my lips, still feeling the ghost of his warmth on my skin. The way I had touched his scarred face—the way he had let me.

Not like Drago.

Drago’s love had been a prison dressed in silk and gold. Possessive. Controlling. Crushing.

Mystic was rough edges and silent strength. A man who could break me apart but chose not too.

My eyes drifted to the sweatshirt slung across the chair. His sweatshirt. Just like the one I wore now, soft and worn against my skin.

I closed my eyes, but again, sleep wouldn’t come.

Not with the whisper worming its way deeper.

Maybe he holds back because of what was done to you. Maybe he sees you the way you were forced to be — dirty, broken, used.

I clutched the edge of the blanket tighter.

He carried something heavy in his eyes. A wound he didn’t show anyone.

And tonight—before Devil’s knock—I saw it again. That hesitation. That restraint. I didn’t know for certain what it meant. But I knew this, Mystic was holding back.

I turned onto my side again, curling smaller into the hollow of the mattress, into the place he had left behind. Wishing for Lucy. Wishing for someone to tell me that wanting something more was okay. But all I had was the quiet sound of the night, the memory of his touch, and the heavy ache of all the words I wanted to say.

Somewhere between wishing and breaking, I drifted. Not into real sleep—but into something heavier. Something deeper. The lines between dream and memory blurred.

I was standing outside, barefoot, the earth cool beneath my toes. The sky stretched wide and endless overhead, scattered with stars sharp enough to cut.

I turned, and he was there.

He stood a few steps away, his body half-shadow, half-moonlight. The scars on his face caught the silver glow, turning him into something out of a story I was told as a child.

But he wasn’t distant. He wasn’t unreachable.

He was mine .

He reached for me—no hesitation, no fear. His hand brushed my cheek, rough and careful, and I leaned into it, needing the touch like I needed air.

"You’re not broken," he whispered, voice rough like gravel, like truth. "You’re mine. "

I tried to speak, but no sound came. Only the wild beat of my heart against the cage of my ribs.

I pressed my palm to his chest, feeling the steady, strong rhythm there. And for the first time in longer than I could remember, my world felt complete.

It felt like home.

I clung to him, desperate to stay in this moment, but the dream slipped like smoke between my fingers.

I woke with a soft gasp, the air thick against my skin. Mystic’s bed cradled me still, his scent wrapped around me, the imprint of his touch burning against my cheek.

I pressed my hand there, closing my eyes tight against the sudden sting.

He wasn’t mine.

Not yet.

But God, I was already his.