Tyrant (Scars of the Wraiths #2)(2)

But there was something different in him than three weeks ago. Maybe it was the way he gently wiped my tears away or how he held me right now, his fingers no longer bruising, but holding me steady as if he knew I needed the support.

He was tall, probably six foot two, and I’d noticed when I was against his chest that my head tucked under his chin. I also noticed, beneath his black T-shirt, he was rock-hard with ridges and valleys of muscles.

His hand moved to the back of my neck. It wasn’t exactly gentle, but more like he was attempting to get my attention. He already had it, but I was still confused.

“You want to get out of this pisshole? ‘Cause if you don’t, tell me now so I can leave you here and get the f*ck out.”

I tried to lower my head, but his grip on the back of my neck tightened and I was forced to meet his eyes. “I hate him.” Why did I say that? I mean, I did, but he didn’t ask me that.

His brows drew together and his grip on my neck tightened. “Yeah, I got that, babe.”

Logically, I should be terrified of him, yet I wasn’t. It was more nervousness than anything.

There was a hint of something I recognized in his eyes that was oddly comforting. And I recognized it because it was the same look I saw in myself; the haunting tornado of emotions trapped behind a wall.

Our walls were very different, though. His wall was a shield of anger. Mine was a shield of numbness.

He let me go, eyes scanning the bathroom before grabbing my sweatshirt hanging on a hook on the wall. “Arms up.” I did and he pulled it over my head. “It’s cold and you don’t have an ounce of fat on you,” he said while his gaze traveled the length of my body. “Jesus, you look like you’ll break in a gust of wind.” He swore beneath his breath and shook his head. “You good to run?”

My legs felt like uncooked spaghetti ready to crack in half at the slightest push and my heart beat erratically, having to work hard to keep my body functioning. I was falling apart, so probably the truth would be a hell no, but I nodded anyway.

He hesitated then nodded, as if satisfied that, regardless of my lie, he thought I’d be able to at least keep up.

He grabbed my hand and pulled me from the bathroom, through the bedroom, to the door.

He pulled a knife from a leather sheath at his hip and opened the door, peering out before looking back at me. “Keep close. Lag behind and I’m not coming back for you. Understand?”

I nodded.

I didn’t trust him, but I did know he would leave me because he’d done it before.

The fight inside me had died years ago, as had the ability to trust anyone. I had trusted. I had fought. Neither had done me any good. So now I trusted myself, and that meant killing parts of who I was.

It meant protecting me.

Burying me.

“Babe?”

I snapped my eyes to his. For a second, I thought his eyes softened, but it was more wishful thinking on my part. He was probably thinking he’d just made the stupidest mistake of his life by coming back here. Escaping my husband’s compound twice had a high probability of failure.

His fingers curled around my fragile hand, squeezed, then tugged me forward. “Let’s get the f*ck out of this shithole.”

We ran down the sterile hallways, hesitating at intersecting corridors so he could watch the security cameras up in the corners until they rotated in the opposite direction.

I had no idea how he expected to get out of here without being caught. Taking the elevator was out of the question as it was a deathtrap on cables, and the south stairs led into the main living quarters.

But he’d done his homework because breaking into the sub-basement was no easy task, and I was still uncertain how he got past the code boxes on the doors.

He stopped and I collided with his hard, broad back. He let go of my hand and turned, his knife held toward me.

My eyes went from him to the knife then back again. “Ah, yeah?”

He grabbed my wrist and slapped the hilt into my palm, curling my fingers around it. “Use it. And don’t f*ckin’ hesitate. Go for the jugular.” He pointed to the faint scar across his throat.

My eyes flickered to the thin, raised line. I couldn’t imagine anyone getting close enough to this guy to be able to cut his throat. And whoever had, I imagined was no longer alive.

“I, ah…” God, the thought of cutting someone made my stomach lurch. Could I end a life? I’d done it once before and swore never to do it again, but it also hadn’t been with a knife. I glanced down at the blade stained with blood.

But if it meant escape? Freedom from my sick husband? Could I do it? I dragged my eyes back to his and nodded.

“Hey.” He cupped my chin, his chest inches from mine. “Don’t think about it. It’s you or them.”

I nodded, taking a deep breath. “Okay.” I could do this. I had to.

“This isn’t going to be pretty.”

“I know.” And I did. Nothing was pretty about this place.

He gave an abrupt nod then pulled a gun from the back of his jeans. He opened the door to the stairwell and waited a few seconds, head tilted, listening.

He nodded to the camera up in the corner, which slowly turned in our direction. “Hits us in five seconds. No way to avoid it. When it does, all hell is going to break loose. We haul ass. Don’t stop no matter what you hear or see. When we get outside, run like hell to the north wall—on the far right of the gate—someone will be there to help you.”