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CHAPTER EIGHTY-EIGHT

PAIN DRAGGED ME back from the dark, dull at first, distant and vague, then sharpening with every breath until it settled behind my eyes like a beat pounding in time with my pulse. My mouth felt like sandpaper, my throat burned raw, and every swallow scraped like gravel.

I tried to move, instinct kicking in before thought could catch up, but nothing gave. My arms had been pulled behind me and bound at the wrists so tightly I could feel the pulse of bruises already forming beneath the plastic. My ankles were tied just as tight, and the cold, damp concrete beneath me reeked of mildew and rust, the kind of stench that clung to your skin even after you left it behind, if you ever got to leave.

My cheek rested against the floor as I forced my eyes open, blinking past the haze. A single bulb swung overhead, buzzing faintly and throwing weak yellow light across the cinderblock walls. No windows. No doors in sight from this angle. Just stale air and the low hum of electricity, the sound of my heartbeat too loud in my ears.

The panic came fast.

I twisted against the restraints, pain flaring through my side, ribs screaming in protest with every movement. I didn’t know how I’d landed, but something was definitely cracked. Still, I pushed past it, eyes scanning the shadows, throat working to stay calm even as the edges of my vision blurred.

That’s when I saw Mystic.

He was slumped against the far wall, arms stretched high above his head and chained to a rusted pipe bolted into the concrete. His head hung low, chin against his chest, blood streaking from his temple down across his jaw. His legs were sprawled out in front of him, one foot twitching in slow, unconscious jolts like he was caught in the middle of a nightmare.

My stomach dropped.

“Mystic,” I croaked, barely able to push the sound out. “Mystic…”

No response.

I tried again, voice breaking around the words, more desperation behind them than I wanted to admit. “Please… wake up.”

Dragging myself forward inch by inch, I ignored the way the concrete scraped at my skin. I could feel blood on my knees, feel the burn in my arms, but none of it mattered. The only thing that did was reaching him.

I got close—closer than I thought I could—before the binds at my ankles yanked taut and slammed me to a stop. I lay there, breathing hard, the floor biting into my side, tears burning behind my eyes.

“Please…”

And then, a flicker—his fingers twitched, subtle but real, followed by a low, guttural sound that told me the pain had found him too.

His head lifted, slowly, like every inch took effort. Hair fell across his face in damp, tangled strands. One eye was nearly swollen shut, but the other found me—wild and clear, burning through the haze.

“Zey…?”

Relief crashed through me, dizzy and raw. “I’m here. I’m okay.”

His gaze swept the room—first the chains, then me, then the locked steel door—and just like that, the beast in him snapped awake.

“Son of a bitch!” he snarled, his voice thunder rolling off the walls. He jerked at the chains violently, the steel groaning beneath the strain of his fury. “Who the fuck did this?!”

“Mystic—”

But he didn’t hear me. He was already lost to the rage, twisting against the restraints with everything he had, muscles flexing, jaw clenched so hard I thought he might crack his teeth. The veins in his arms stood out like cables, his whole body a weapon trying to break loose.

“Get these fuckin’ things off me!” he roared into the emptiness. “You hear me? You come near her again and I’ll kill you!”

“Mystic!” I snapped, louder than I meant to.

He froze, chest heaving, sweat and blood streaking down the side of his face as he turned his gaze back to me.

“You’ll hurt yourself,” I said, trying to steady my voice. “You’re bleeding.”

His eyes locked on mine, and for a moment, the storm in him pulled back just a fraction.

“Did they hurt you?” he asked, his voice dropping to something rougher—lower, threaded with fear he couldn’t hide.

“No,” I said quickly. “Just the crash. I don’t think they meant to kill us. Not yet.”

He clenched his jaw, fury radiating off him like heat. “No… they meant to cage us.”

We were quiet after that, afraid to talk about what was going to happen, because then it would make it real, not a dream like I prayed.

Then he spoke again, voice like broken gravel. “We’re gettin’ out of here. You understand me?”

I nodded, because there was no version of this where I didn’t believe him.

His head dropped back against the wall, his chest rising and falling with slow, ragged breaths, each one a battle he was trying to win. Blood trickled down his jaw in a thin, dark line, and his fingers curled into fists like he was holding himself together by force.

“I swear to God,” he said quietly, teeth gritted, “if they touch you, I’ll rip their fuckin’ hearts out with my teeth.”

My own chest tightened, not with fear—but with rage of my own. Seeing him like this—caged, wounded, helpless—it cut deeper than anything I’d felt in years.

But what hurt most wasn’t the blood or the chains or even the room we were trapped in.

It was the look in his eyes.

He wasn’t just furious. He was drowning in guilt.

“You have to stop,” I said softly. “You’re going to dislocate your shoulder. Or worse.”

He didn’t answer, didn’t even look at me. His eyes stayed on the ceiling, unblinking, jaw clenched hard enough to splinter bone.

“I don’t give a fuck,” he rasped. There was something different in his voice now. Less rage. More shame. “I can’t sit here and do nothin’ while you’re tied up beside me like a goddamn hostage. I’m supposed to protect you, Zeynep.”

“You are,” I said. “You’re here.”

His eyes finally slid to mine. “I should’ve known something was wrong,” he muttered. “Should’ve gone with you. Should’ve followed sooner. I heard your voice on the phone and—I knew it wasn’t you. But I wanted it to be so bad…”

The raw truth in those words stole the breath from my lungs.

“I’m sorry,” he added, voice barely above a whisper.

“Don’t,” I said, shaking my head. “This isn’t your fault.”

“The hell it isn’t.”

“You think I don’t know what that guilt feels like?” I asked. “You think I haven’t lived with it every day since I was taken from my home? That feeling like you should’ve seen it coming, should’ve been smarter, faster, stronger?”

I shifted, the plastic biting into my wrists again, but I didn’t care. “This… you and me… we’re not alone in it anymore.”

His face changed. Just slightly. The fire didn’t die—but it flickered softer around the edges.

“You’re stronger than you think,” he murmured.

“No,” I said, almost a whisper. “I’m just done being afraid.”

He let out a sound—part breath, part pain, part disbelief—and let his head fall for a moment. When he looked back at me, something else was there. Something deeper.

“You know I love you more than my own life, right?” he asked.

The words weren’t wrapped in poetry or offered sweetly. They came out raw and exposed, like something torn out of his chest and handed over still bleeding.

I nodded slowly, the answer thick in my throat. “I know.”

“I ain’t ever said it to anyone before.”

“I know that too.” I smiled softly. “I love you so much.”

For a long moment, neither of us spoke. We just looked at each other, two people chained and bleeding on a concrete floor, hearts cracked open, nothing left but each other.

And even here, even like this...we would fight to be together.