Tyrant (Scars of the Wraiths #2)

by Nashoda Rose

  “How long, Damien? How long can we do this for?” she asked when my hand reached for the doorknob.

  Balen said it could be months, years, or there was a good possibility she’d die. Her and the child. My fuckin’ child and my little red-haired pixie witch.

  I flung open the door then said, “As long as it takes, Abbs. As long as it fuckin’ takes.”

  Six Months Later

  I LEFT THERAPY FEELING psychologically drained. Today I’d had a breakthrough, as Rebecca called it—more like a breakdown—and it opened up a part of myself that I thought had died long ago.

  It took months of Rebecca constantly urging me to open up, to feel emotions with the role-playing and art. But today we pried open the dark corners of my mind.

  Where Anton lived. At least his words did.

  The years of constant belittling, telling me over and over again that I was a failure. A disappointment. I was never good enough. And when he shouted at me, which was when I used to fight, he made me feel like a tiny bug on the floor that he squashed with one stomp.

  Sometimes he’d put the bug in a glass jar and watch it with those beady eyes until it cowered in the corner. He liked that the best.

  He liked me to cower under his glare.

  God, when had it happened? When had I become so trapped within myself that I forgot who I was?

  Rebecca asked me to take on Anton’s role and she was me. That hit me hardest seeing Rebecca sitting on the couch, hands in her lap, head down, trembling while I, as Anton, shouted at her.

  And I hated—Me. It was there right in front of me.

  Anton had steamrolled every bit of pride. Seeing that, it made me want to fight harder. And I was angry. I hadn’t been angry in a long time, and it was like I’d been cracked open and pieces of who I was scattered in front of me.

  I just had to pick them up and put them back in place.

  After the session, I walked home thinking of my safe place to center myself. My steps were self-assured, my shoulders straight, chin lifted. It was weird not worrying about what strangers thought about me as I passed. I wanted to find my voice and fight back. I didn’t want to be scared anymore.

  The blanket I lived under—suffocating me for years, yet making me feel safe—lifted a little more each day. It made me feel naked and vulnerable, but it was also freeing.

  But there were two issues I hadn’t faced yet. With my weight gain, my abilities had begun to reawaken. The other was Kilter.

  A tear escaped and I quickly brushed it aside. He’d lied to me on the rooftop. He’d been cruel and insensitive, but he’d come back. He fought for me.

  I knew I saw something in him. There was gentleness and yet, like me, he kept parts of who he was hidden.

  Why had he never come to see me? Where did he go? In six months, he never contacted me, and despite not wanting to care, I did. It hurt.

  I pushed open the back door of the gallery and walked upstairs, my feet heavier, the bounce in my step slower as thoughts of Kilter lingered.

  “Hey, Rayne,” Delara called from the kitchen.

  “Hi,” I said. Then my eyes hit Jedrik standing with a beer in his hand while leaning his tall, lithe form against the counter, blond curls untidy and his blue eyes dancing with mischief.

  He raised his beer, eyes roaming the length of my body. “Looking totally smokin’ hot, Rayne. Fuck.”

  Delara punched his shoulder with the can of soup she was holding. “So inappropriate, asshole.”

  He winced and rubbed his arm. “She needs to know she looks hot. Chicks like that.”

  I smiled. “Thanks, Jedrik.”

  He winked at me, grinning.

  I walked over to the kitchen table and reached into one of the grocery bags, pulling out the milk and placing it in the fridge.

  “Arrow was just leaving.” Delara raised her brows. “Weren’t you?”

  He shrugged, chugged back the rest of his beer, and set it on the counter before shoving away. “Fine. I have work to do anyway.”

  “Work? When was the last time you worked at anything?” Delara put the pancake mix up in the cupboard.

  Jedrik chuckled and quirked his brows. “I work. Just at something different than you do.”

  “Yeah, you work at getting laid,” Delara retorted.

  “Well, that’s hard work. Not all women fall easily for this handsome face. Some like to be wooed. At least, I sleep with women who are aren’t bloodfuckers who—”

  “Shut up, asshole.” Delara threw a bag of frozen corn at his head. He caught it and set it on the kitchen table.

  He took two steps toward her, looped his arm around her waist, and yanked her against his chest. “Love you, Sass. Need you safe.”

  Delara’s face instantly softened, but she pushed him away. “Go. Get out of here. And it’s your turn to call Damien. I’m not doing it this week. He nearly bit off my head the last time I called. Seriously, that guy has major issues.”

  “Have a little sympathy. He’s in hell.” I had no idea who Damien was and, after hearing that, I didn’t want to. Jedrik kissed her cheek and headed out of the kitchen. “See ya, Rayne. Totally hot and fucka—”

  “Arrow!” Delara picked up a can of peaches and threw it at his head, but he caught it before it hit him.

  He grinned. “Later, babes.” He tossed the can back at Delara then jogged down the stairs.

  “So how was therapy? You feeling okay?” Delara asked while continuing to put the groceries away.

  “Good. Bad. Hard.”

  I moved to lean up against the counter, a box of crackers in my hands. This was the first time in months that Delara seemed approachable. “Where do you stay every night?”

  Delara’s hand stopped midway to the cupboard with a can of tuna. She set it on top of the three others then shut the cupboard before turning. “It’s a Scar thing, Rayne. I’ve never mentioned anything because I know you want to keep what we are and do out of your life. And you’re doing so much better. Besides, it’s nothing anyway.”

  It was true. I didn’t want to know what the Scars did. I knew enough from Anton, and what I’d learned was the Scars fought against CWOs and vampires to protect humans.

  But Delara had been good to me and I wanted to help if I could. “If I can help—”

  “Really, it’s nothing, okay?” Delara cut me off and her back tensed. Something was wrong. She also just put the sour cream in the cupboard and the oranges in the freezer. “How about we go shopping? We both need new dresses for Danni’s art gala tomorrow night. And, yes, you’re going. Mandatory for all employees.”

  “I’m her only employee.” I laughed.

  “All the more reason for you to go.”

  I made four hundred dollars a week working at Danni’s gallery, and I saved as much as I could. Leaving Toronto would eventually happen because one of these days the Scars were going to sense my abilities and would want me to be a part of their fight.

  Every day that I became stronger, so did my powers shifting through my body; it was as if they slowly woke from a long sleep. Soon my shields wouldn’t be enough to keep them hidden and the Scars would find out I was one of them.

  I’d never use my ability again. I wouldn’t. If the Scars wanted me as part of their fight, I’d have to leave.

  I WAS DETERMINED TO find Rayne the sexiest, classiest, dress in the city. She’d gained twenty or so pounds in six months and her eyes no longer looked sunken in. There was a healthy glow to her skin. She had hips and curves, but as she tried on dress after dress, I noticed her uncertainty as she looked at herself in the mirror. I suspected it would take years for her to be confident with how she looked.

  I found a full-length silver-sequined gown that had a beautiful V-neck and low-dipped back. The silver would wash out Rayne’s features, but for my olive skin tone it was perfect.

  “Going to try this on,” I said to Rayne over the dress rack as I headed into the dressing room. I hadn’t planned on buying anything, but I tried a few dr
esses to satisfy Rayne’s argument that if she had to try on dresses, so did I.

  There was no one else in the dressing room, so I picked the last door on the left. I wiggled out of my snug jeans, yanked my long-sleeved, red shirt over my head, and stepped into the gown.

  “How’s Rayne?”

  I gasped, swinging around at the familiar deep voice directly behind me—in my change room. In a woman’s change room.

  “Jesus, Tac.” I quickly finished pulling the dress up, but was unable to reach around and zip it, so I held the front up with one hand. “What are you doing here?” The last place I wanted Waleron was in close quarters with me. But he had no qualms about doing whatever he felt like regardless of others’ feelings. I knew that firsthand.

  His ice blue eyes roamed the length of my body then back up again.

  I glared. “Get out.”

  He casually leaned up against the door, which was my only escape, and crossed his arms. “Kilter’s Rest ends tomorrow.” He spoke in his usual manner—calm, steady, and with as much emotion as a bloody lamppost. But what pissed me off was that every time he was near, my stomach whooshed and my knees weakened. “So, I’ll ask again, how is Rayne?”

  No matter what he did or said, that feeling was always there. “She’s better. Gained weight. More confident. But, Tac, she doesn’t want anything to do with the Scars.”

  “She may not have a choice. Word is a Grit from the compound is roaming the streets watching Rayne. He has yet to kill any humans, but we need to deal with him before he makes a move on her. I suspect it’s the same man you encountered at the Talde house months ago.”

  “If I had to guess, yeah, it would be him.”

  Waleron protected the Scars as if we were his lifeline. Actually, we were his lifeline. Screw with him and he’d retaliate, but he’d also sacrifice everything to save your ass. “She’s under our protection now. That means a Grit does not get near her.”

  “I don’t think he wants to harm her,” I said, but it didn’t make sense. For years, the Grit had watched Rayne being used by her husband. Why hadn’t he done anything to stop it?

  “Still, he must be dealt with. I’m uncertain whether he’s the one who is causing the unrest in the city, but I sense something and we need to find out what it is,” Waleron said.

  And that could be why Liam had asked me to stay away from his penthouse for the past three nights. “Shit,” I muttered. The unrest was Liam. I wanted to tell Waleron about Abby, but he’d be obligated to tell the Wraiths and Trinity. That witch-bitch would raise hell.

  “I called in Tye. Damien isn’t answering his phone or emails.” Oh shit. “We need to learn more about this Grit and the compound.”

  “So you want to question Rayne?”

  Waleron nodded. “We also have the issue of Kilter,” Waleron said. “He’ll be angry when he wakes from Rest.” Angry was an understatement. He’d be a volatile fireball who was going to cause serious damage. The question was to who. “And he’ll contact Rayne.”

  I toyed with the sequins on the curved neckline of the dress. “She hasn’t mentioned him, but I don’t know. There was something between them.” I noticed Waleron’s eyes on my fingers as I fiddled with the dress and I quickly stopped.

  His eyes met mine. “Rayne has become his way of redeeming his past. But he will fail.”

  I wanted to retort ‘at least he is trying to redeem his past’—I didn’t. Instead, I turned and reached for my clothes piled on the bench. “We can question Rayne in a couple days, after the gala. Let her have one night of fun before we blow up her world again.” I held my clothes to my chest. “Now, can you get out?”

  “Maitagarri,” he said in that low, husky voice.

  I was about to fling my jeans at his head when Rayne said, “Delara. How’s the dress?”

  “Shit,” I whispered, scowling at Waleron who didn’t seem the least bit concerned that he was in a woman’s change stall with me. “She’s coming, damn it. Go. Trace out of here.”

  There was a slight twitch at the corner of his mouth. “I think it’s time she met me.”

  “What?” My eyes widened and I made a grab for his arm as he slid the latch and opened the door.

  I sat on the old plaid lounge chair in the living room, legs parted, elbows resting on my thighs, hands holding my head as her haunting screams echoed over and over again. The chains… Jesus. I had no choice. But seeing her strain against them, her delicate wrists raw and bleeding—fuck. It ruined me.

  Her pleading.

  Her ravaged shouts.

  Then the worst hit. Her desperate sobs that sent me to my knees beside the bed, begging her to stop.

  But she didn’t.

  The child was gone. The baby lost. To her. To me. To us.

  My fingers gripped the roots of my hair, nails digging into my scalp. My insides hacksawed and strewn in every direction.

  I was a fuckin’ Scar, and yet this I couldn’t handle.

  I ran my hand down my ragged face. “Fuck this. Fuck it.” I kicked the leg of the small coffee table. It collapsed under the jarring pressure and magazines slipped to the floor.

  “Damn it!” I kicked the offensive table again.

  I’d been on the phone with Anstice half the night. Then resorted to threats if she didn’t come and help me. That was when Keir got on the phone and threatened me. He refused to allow Anstice anywhere near Abby. Shit, it wasn’t safe for anyone near Abby.

  The blood.

  The image would haunt me for a lifetime, and since I was immortal, that was a fuck of a long time. I was good with blood. I killed. I slit men’s throats and watched them bleed out.

  But it was Abbs and it was our baby.

  When she miscarried I’d run into the bathroom and threw up. Then I took out my cell and tapped in Anstice’s number, shouting.

  Abby was dying. It was over.

  Anstice remained quiet until I stopped ranting. Then she calmly gave me instructions on what to do. I had no choice. I wanted to get the fuck out of there, but leaving Abbs chained to the bedpost bleeding…Fuck, I couldn’t.

  So, I did what I had to do and, eventually, the horror ended. But I knew what happened last night would never really end. It was engraved in me.

  Abby finally lay dazed and confused, her eyes glassy, her skin pale. So fuckin’ pale. I had no idea if she knew what happened—that she’d lost the baby—because often the next morning she had no recollection of the night before.

  Fuck, I couldn’t tell her. Don’t make me tell her.

  I’d sat beside the bed and watched Abby for hours after that. Making certain the bleeding had stopped. Then while she slept I performed the grueling task of washing her body and changing the sheets.

  Balen had just left. He’d driven here to take the baby.

  I never wanted a child. But I never wanted her to lose it. And not like this. Never like this.

  There was grief for the loss I never expected. Could we have had a chance?

  No. The child never had a chance. We didn’t.

  “Christ.” I squeezed my eyes shut, attempting to get rid of the images from last night, but they continually tormented me.

  Abbs. Fuck.

  She was slipping through my fingers.

  Six goddamn months of this and my sanity was questionable. I was losing the battle. She was losing the battle. I knew it. My body knew it, and soon Abby would know it when I left her here to die.

  Because I couldn’t do this anymore.

  I couldn’t stop the emotional pain that wracked my body any longer. It was too much. Watching. Being the one who could end her suffering by offering my blood, but unable to let her become something I detested more than anything in this world.

  “Fuck. I can’t any longer. I can’t, Abbs.”

  I stood and kicked the collapsed coffee table across the twelve-by-ten room. “Jesus, let me fuckin’ breathe.” I turned and slammed my fist into the drywall, leaving a gaping hole into the pantry.

  Suf
focating. My chest so tight it felt as if my lungs were collapsing. By denying what she wanted, I was the one putting her through hell.

  I paced back and forth across the worn-out hardwood floor, hand raking through my hair.

  I watched her suffer night after night as she screamed and flailed against the chains, eyes blazing.

  She wanted one drop of blood to ease her thirst—one drop. And time and again I denied her and was subjected to her hatred, which soon turned to begging then finally sobbing.

  It repeated for hours like a broken record, over and over again until finally, near dawn every day, she collapsed into an exhausted sleep.

  The Abby I’d known had disappeared behind glazed red eyes. I was afraid she was too far gone, that any hope of her surviving was pointless.

  I’d never given in to anything in my life, but witnessing Abby’s torture any longer was beyond even my capability.

  “God, Abbs, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” I stared out the bay window onto the lake.

  The serene morning calm of the water was laughing at my riptide of emotions. I’d rather be whipped until my back was raw or water boarded until I drown. Fuck, I’d switch places with her if I could. Anything but this. Because this was far worse. It was her pain, and I had no control over it. I couldn’t stop it.

  I hated that I wasn’t strong enough to withstand this. Most of all, I hated that I cared enough to want to stop her pain.

  Because I knew.

  I knew one certainty in all this.

  She had managed to touch a piece of my heart.

  I had to do something.

  I took out my cell. Pressed nine. Then closed my eyes and put it to my ear.

  “Yes.” The cold, unemotional voice answered.

  “Need your help.”

  “Oh!” I stumbled back a step as I came face to face with the most handsome, yet scariest, man I’d ever laid eyes on. Eyes ice blue, sculpted cheeks and chin, shaved head, and a snake tattoo on his neck. And he was built, like seriously worked out built.

  “Sorry. I thought this was the women’s….” I glanced over my shoulder at the sign. “Umm, I think you have the wrong—”