Tyrant (Scars of the Wraiths #2)(20)

“At first, she may have discovered that by losing weight, she gained something, in a good way, but what she gained I don’t know. Later, it may have been more about her control. He may have told her what to do, what to look like, how to act, and she couldn’t find control in her life, but maybe she felt she could at least find control over her body.” Anstice paused. “No one can force someone to eat. It may sound odd, but maybe she felt like she lost control every time she ate. Or that she failed.”

“But she’s a toothpick. How can she not see that?” Fuck, none of this sounded good, and it was way over my head.

“From what I’ve been told, when Rayne looks in the mirror, she sees a failure. In her head, that may relate to her being fat.” She held up her hand when I went to interject. “Let me put it to you this way, she could never please Anton, so her mind may have created something she thought she could succeed at because she believes she can control her food intake. Starving herself does two things, she can win at it and it gives her control.”

“Why the hell would she care about pleasing that *?”

“He’s all she’s had, Kilter. No matter what he did to her, he was her lifeline. I don’t think we can even begin to understand what she’s been through or what it was like.”

“But she’s f*ckin’ weak as hell.” I paced back and forth, hand repetitively running through my hair. I hated feeling helpless. I did what had to be done, but suddenly there was nothing I could do.

Anstice nodded. “Not eating is her power. She can slip inside herself and not feel. No emotions, no pain.” She sighed. “I’m not a psychologist, but I talked to three therapists yesterday and read the book.”

“The bastard is dead. She doesn’t have to do this shit anymore,” I said.

Keir sighed, the creak of leather sounding as he shifted in his chair.

Anstice shook her head and raised her eyes heavenward.

“What?” I said.

“She needs therapy, Kilter. You don’t recover spontaneously. It’s much deeper than that,” Keir said. “I’ve investigated several different eating disorder clinics, and I think sending her—”

I stopped pacing, my heart pounding. “Whoa, what? No. She is not being put into another compound. Fuck that.”

“They aren’t compounds. They’re first-class institutions. More like a spa with people who can help her. And she always has the choice to leave,” Anstice said.

“No!”

Anstice looked at Keir and he nodded. “Waleron knows of the situation. He’ll have the final say, Kilter.”

“You told him?” Christ, now I’d have to deal with that *. “She’s not being locked up. I’m not doing that to her.” I grabbed the book off the chaise lounge. “I’ll find another way.” I stormed out of the room.

Fat? She thought she was fat? I wanted to strip her down, force her to stand in front of a mirror and point out every single bone. Maybe then she’d see what everyone else did.

My hand tightened around the book. I was no saint, and getting involved with a girl who had serious issues was ludicrous. This was supposed to be simple. Rescue her and walk away. Now, I was going up to my room to read a f*ckin’ book.





I SAT AT THE bar, hands cupped around my third pint, ignoring the subtle movements of what I suspected were alcoholics sitting at the bar with me. Who else would be drinking at this time in the morning?

Lately, I’d been seeking my watering hole more often than I cared to admit. With * Off-Kilter residing in the Talde house and my best friend screwing a vampire, alcohol was my distraction.

The Fog Pub was a hike from Keir’s, but only a couple blocks down the road from Danni’s gallery. Delara used to come here with me all the time, but that was before the witch bitch Trinity and Waleron f*cked and sent her on a mission of self-destruction. She disappeared for two years after that then came back to help out Balen by f*cking the Wraith Edan.

“Hey, you mind if I sit here?”

I shrugged, not even glancing at the chick who came up beside me. I took a swig of beer, and continued watching the big screen TV up in the corner of the bar. The barstool scraped on the floor as the chick pulled it out, sat, and asked the bartender for a straight-up coffee with a shot of milk.

My usual charming self was on hiatus after hearing Delara’s latest, so I didn’t bother saying anything to the chick, even though from the corner of my eye I saw she had damn nice legs.

Friggin’ Delara with this screwed up path she was on. Using a vampire was going to come to a head, and I wouldn’t be able to save her from it.

“Cool, thanks,” the girl said to the bartender as he slid a steaming mug of coffee her way. “And better get him another.”

I tensed, shifting on my stool to look at her. I didn’t need some chick… my brows lifted and eyes widened.

She bit her lower lip and smiled. “Do I look that bad this morning?” She laughed and it was like a strum of an acoustic guitar. “Well, I believe that’s the first time a guy has looked at me like I was a bug splattered on his windshield.” She ran her hand over her chic short red stands of hair. “It’s not that bad, is it? I just had it done, and I thought the girl did a good job. Kind of a feisty, fashionable look.”