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CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

I ONLY DANCED when no one was around. Usually in the hours that Drago would leave me locked in the room while he was out.

It wasn’t something I did for others. Not anymore. Not after everything.

Dancing was the one thing Drago had never touched, the one part of me I had kept locked away, safe from his control. I had never let him see it. Never let him ruin it.

Now, here in this quiet moment, alone in my room with only the soft glow of the night outside my window, I let myself have it.

Music filled the space, something soft, something familiar. I closed my eyes, letting the notes move through me, my body following without thought. The steps were instinct, imprinted deep within me, muscle memory from a life that felt like a dream. A dream before the nightmare.

I moved. Light. Controlled. Each breath pulling me deeper into the rhythm. It was the only time I ever felt truly weightless. Then something changed. A presence. I knew before I even turned around. A shift in the air, the weight of eyes on me. My heart stuttered, and I spun on reflex, my breath catching when my gaze landed on him.

He stood in the doorway, arms crossed, leaning against the frame. He wasn’t smirking, wasn’t teasing. Just watching.

I stopped moving.

“Don’t stop,” he said, his eyes never leaving mine.

I swallowed, my body tense, unsure. “I—”

He shook his head, taking a slow step closer. “Keep going.”

Hesitantly, I let the music pull me back in. Not as fluid as before, not as free, but still moving, still feeling.

I danced, the music filling the space between us, the only sound in the quiet of the room. For the first time, I let someone see this part of me. The song slowed, fading into the stillness. My feet found their place, my breathing uneven as I came to a stop in front of him.

He was close. I could’ve stepped back, but I didn’t want to. Mystic’s fingers brushed my cheek—warm, solid, real. My pulse jumped at the touch, at the weight of this moment pressing between us.

Then he kissed me. Soft. Slow.

I stiffened at first—old instincts, old fears. But he didn’t push, didn’t demand. He just waited.

I let my eyes close, let myself lean into it. Into him. Just for a second. Just for this. Because I wanted this —wanted him .

A knock sounded at the door, and he jumped like he’d been bitten.

“Mystic?” Chain’s voice came through the door.

“I gotta see what he wants,” Mystic said, not looking at me.

I watched him walk out, my magical moment broken. I walked to the window and sighed. Why can’t we, for once, not get interrupted?

***

I WOKE UP warm. Happy. It was a feeling I still wasn’t used to, but I didn’t fight it. Not when the heat pressed against my back, steady and solid. Not when I felt his breath, slow and rough, ghosting across the back of my neck. I shifted slightly, trying not to wake him, but even the smallest movement made him stir. His arm, draped heavy over my waist, tightened, pulling me back against him for the briefest second before he caught himself and started to ease away.

Urgency flared sharp in my chest—stupid, reckless—and before I could think better of it, I reached back, catching his wrist in my hand. Holding him there. For a long moment, neither of us moved. The air around us felt thick enough to drown in, but I wasn’t letting go.

Last night had changed something.

I could still feel the ghost of his mouth on mine, the way he’d kissed me, slow and careful, like he was memorizing me. I swallowed hard, my fingers tightening around his wrist like I could ground us both to this one fragile moment.

“You’re awake,” his voice rasped against my skin, gravelly and rough from sleep.

I turned slightly, just enough to see him. His hair was messy, his face half lost in the shadows. His eyes, always so guarded, were softer than I’d ever seen them. Like I was something he wanted but wasn’t allowing himself to have.

“Yeah,” I whispered, “sorry I woke you.”

He didn’t answer right away. His gaze flicked over my face, dropping to my mouth—the same mouth he’d kissed hours ago—and I saw the battle flash across his face.

A muscle ticked hard in his jaw. His hand, still trapped against my waist by my fingers, tensed like he was one breath away from pulling back, from putting distance between us.

I couldn’t let him.

Without giving myself time to overthink it, I leaned in, brushing my lips against his scarred jaw, my fingers skimming up to cradle his face. He stiffened—reflex, habit, self-preservation—but he didn’t pull away.

I kissed him. Soft. Certain. Giving him the choice he thought he didn’t have.

“I don’t regret it,” I whispered against his mouth, tasting the hesitation still clinging to him, feeling the fight he was waging with himself.

His hand flexed at my hip, not pulling away now, holding me tighter.

"Zeynep..." My name broke from him in a low, wrecked sound, more plea than warning.

I smiled against his lips, slow and sure. "You’ll have to do better than that if you want me to stop," I breathed.

He groaned low in his chest, like the sound was ripped out of him, and then he was kissing me back—deeper this time, rougher, like he couldn’t help himself anymore.

There was nothing careful about it now. Nothing slow.

Only two people clinging to the one thing that finally, finally felt real.