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CHAPTER SIXTY-SIX

ZEYNEP WAS FALLING apart in front of me, and she wasn’t e ven trying to hide it anymore.

From across the room, I watched her stack dishes onto a tray, her hands trembling so badly she could barely keep hold of them. Her shoulders were hunched, too thin and drawn tight like over-wound wire—each step stiff, mechanical, like she was running on sheer willpower alone. No rest. No food. No sleep. Just survival.

That was what she did.

And yet… she acted like none of it mattered.

Brenda said something to her, trying to take the tray from her hands. But Zeynep jerked away, a flash of resistance in a body that looked moments away from collapse.

Brenda scowled, straightening up with that fire of hers sparking to life. “Girl, I swear, if you don’t sit your ass down—”

“I am fine,” Zeynep replied, voice quiet but steady, the kind of final that left no room for argument.

Bullshit.

I pushed off the wall, tired of standing back, tired of watching her deteriorate while pretending she wasn’t.

She turned from Brenda and started toward the kitchen, but I moved into her path before she could pass.

She stopped abruptly, close enough that I felt the shift in her breath, the sudden tension that flared between us. But she said nothing. Didn’t even look at me. No flicker of emotion. No recognition. Just silence, like I wasn’t there at all.

She tried to move around me, and I blocked her again.

Her fingers gripped the tray tighter, knuckles whitening from the pressure, but her gaze remained fixed somewhere beyond me—as if I didn’t exist.

I could feel the frustration boiling under my skin, rising fast, too fast, like gasoline looking for flame.

I leaned in slightly, voice low. “Say somethin’.”

But she didn’t even blink. Didn’t flinch. Just moved as if I were air, something to pass through.

And that was it. I snapped.

My hand shot out, snatching the tray from her grip. The dishes clattered, one nearly tipping over the edge, but I didn’t care. I wanted her to react. I needed her to react.

Her eyes finally met mine—and fuck.

She looked pale, the skin beneath her lashes bruised with exhaustion, lips pressed into a tight line like she was holding herself together by sheer force of will. But it wasn’t her body that gutted me—it was her eyes.

There was no spark in them. No fight. No fire.

Just acceptance.

Like she’d already decided I was going to hurt her and was simply bracing for the impact.

That look hollowed me out.

I stood there, clutching the tray so tightly my hands began to shake too, a mirror of her unraveling.

“That’s it?” I asked, my voice sharp with disbelief. “You’re just gonna stand there and pretend I don’t exist?”

Her jaw tightened, but still, she didn’t speak.

I exhaled hard through my nose, trying to stay steady, trying not to let the helpless fury twist into something worse.

“You wanna be mad at me?” I growled, stepping closer. “Fine. Be mad. But don’t walk around like you’re fine when you’re clearly not.”

Still nothing.

She didn’t move. Didn’t speak.

She just stood there like a ghost, and for a second, I felt like I was the one haunting her .

I slammed the tray down onto the nearest table, the metal clanging loud against wood and slicing through the room.

“Say somethin’, Zeynep.”

But the silence didn’t break.

“Fuck!”

The curse tore out of me, raw and ragged, all the anger and guilt and desperation I’d been trying to hold inside spilling over like a dam finally cracked.

I dragged a hand through my hair, trying to breathe, trying to think, trying not to fall apart in front of her.

Then I stepped in again, voice dropping lower, rough and tight with something deeper than anger. “You don’t get to do this,” I said, eyes locked on hers. “You don’t get to fade out in front of me like you don’t fuckin’ matter.”

Something shifted in her gaze. Just a flicker. Barely there.

Her lips parted—but no words came. She didn’t crumble. Didn’t speak. Didn’t scream or cry. She just stood there, silent, distant, unreachable.

And that silence cut deeper than any scream could have.

Because it wasn’t stubbornness. It was defense.

She wasn’t fighting me—she was surviving me.

And I hated it.

I hated that I’d made her feel like the only way to stay safe was to disappear. I stepped back, chest heaving, guilt roaring through me like a second heartbeat. I’d seen her angry before—quiet and fierce and protective, especially when it came to Lucy. But this wasn’t that.

This wasn’t anger.

This was something worse.

This was emptiness.

And she looked at me like I was just another man who failed her. Another reason to stop trusting.

Then—quiet. Soft. Barely audible.

“Are you finished?”

Her voice slipped into the space between us like a knife wrapped in silk.

I closed my eyes, jaw clenching, the sound of it hitting harder than anything I’d said all day. When I opened them again, she wasn’t looking at me. She was looking past me, like she already knew I’d move.

And I did.

I stepped aside.

She walked past me without a word, her steps steady, controlled—but I knew how much effort it took her just to keep moving.

And I let her go.

Again.

The second she disappeared around the corner, it was like something caved in on itself inside me. A kind of helplessness I couldn’t shake, sinking deep in my chest and twisting everything up until I didn’t know if I wanted to scream or collapse.

I stood there, frozen, staring at the place where she’d been, every breath a struggle not to chase after her.

I should’ve held her. Should’ve said something that mattered.

But I’d chosen rage. Chosen noise.

And she didn’t need my anger, she needed to feel safe, and I’d failed her in that, too.

I turned sharply, eyes burning, throat thick, and made my way toward the back of the clubhouse, needing space. Needing air. Needing to hit something before I broke apart in front of the people who followed me.

The hallway felt like it was closing in, too narrow, too tight for the storm building inside me. When I hit the back door, I shoved it open with enough force to make it slam into the wall behind it. The night air rushed over me, but it didn’t cool the heat under my skin. My fists curled and uncurled at my sides, chest heaving, pulse too loud in my ears to hear anything else.

Then the anger surged again, and I let it.

My fist slammed into the nearest crate, the wood exploding beneath the impact, shards scattering across the gravel. Pain ripped up my arm, sudden and sharp—but it still didn’t hurt as much as the look in her eyes.

I bent forward, bracing myself on my knees, breathing like I’d taken a hit to the ribs, trying to hold in the sound clawing up my throat. Words had never come easy for me. Not the ones that mattered. Not the ones that could make things right.

And if I didn’t figure it out now—

The door behind me creaked open. Devil came up beside me without a word, his gaze falling to the busted crate and the blood on my knuckles.

Then, with a dry chuckle, he said, “That helping?”

I shook out my hand, breath still ragged. “Not even a little.”

After a beat of silence, he said it, flat, simple, cutting. “You’re a dumbass.”

A broken laugh escaped me. “Yeah,” I muttered. “Figured that out about five minutes ago.”

“You sure?” he asked, arms folded across his chest. “’Cause from where I’m standing, you’re out here fighting crates instead of fighting for her.”

I clenched my jaw. “And how the fuck am I supposed to do that?”

He didn’t answer right away. When he did, his voice was steady, calm, and low enough to leave no room for bullshit.

“You don’t fix this, Mystic. You earn it.”

The words sank in, heavy and pointed.

He nodded toward my bleeding hand. “You can bleed all over this goddamn lot, break every box in the county—it won’t make her forget what you did. Won’t make her believe you’re not like the rest.”

I didn’t respond. I couldn’t. Because he was right.

Devil let out a breath, quiet but full of weight. “She’s been trying to survive since she was sixteen and you can’t force her to talk to you.”

My head dropped. “That’s not what I wanted.”

He shrugged. “Doesn’t matter what you wanted. It matters what she felt .”

I ran a hand through my hair, every part of me burning with frustration. “She won’t even look at me.”

“Then give her a reason to,” he said simply.

I turned toward him, eyes hard, voice edged. “And how the fuck do I do that?”

He studied me for a moment. And then, just the barest hint of a smirk. “You figure it out, but don’t go forcing shit on her.” His eyes clouded over and he added, “At least she’s alive for you make it right.”

With that, he clapped a hand on my shoulder, gave it one firm squeeze, and walked back toward the clubhouse like he’d said everything that needed saying.

I stayed there in the dark, blood drying on my knuckles, my breath slowing as the weight of his words settled into my bones.

Earn it.

I didn’t know how.

But I was going to figure it the fuck out.