Tyrant (Scars of the Wraiths #2)(22)

“Jesus, babe, I hate the reminder of what he did to you. I see the bruises and all I see is you hanging by your throat.” He sighed. “I’m asking if you will do this for me.”

My eyes widened and my heart skipped a beat. I’d anticipated him demanding I let Anstice heal me, not asking if I’d do it for him because he didn’t want to be reminded of Anton strangling me. I didn’t know what to do with that, so I stayed quiet.

He continued, “You still want to refuse, I’ll let it go, but I won’t like it.”

I hesitated, biting the inside of my cheek, and watched him as he waited patiently for my answer. “It’ll be fast?”

“Yeah, babe.”

I was uncertain if Anstice would be able to read my thoughts like the Wraith, and I was worried about it. “She has to touch me?”

Kilter nodded. “Yes, but briefly.”

He wanted me to do this because he hated seeing the bruises. “Okay.”

Before I knew what he was doing, Kilter tilted his head and his lips brushed my forehead. When he stepped back, I noticed the quick change in his expression as if he realized what he’d done.

It was obvious we were both unaccustomed to tenderness.




Anstice and Kilter were telling the truth. It didn’t hurt—actually, all I felt was warmth on my neck.

I sat on the edge of the bed as Anstice hovered over me, eyes closed and hands inches away from my skin. I kept my eyes open and on Kilter who stood leaning up against the bedpost watching.

I knew if it hurt or I wanted it to stop, he would make sure that happened.

Anstice’s hands changed colors from white to a deep orange and to bright red. She kept her eyes closed, and I noticed her flinch several times before coughing, her breathing labored and ragged.

Her body stiffened and the subtle lines of her face were strained. She suddenly gasped for air and her eyes flew open as she staggered back from the bed.

Tears pooled in her eyes as she glanced from me to Kilter. “No matter what Waleron says about you going into the compound, it was the right thing to do.” She looked back at me. “I’m sorry. I know it’s not much, but I’m just really glad you’re here now.” Quickly, she turned and left the room.

I was uncertain what she was talking about or who Waleron was and why he’d have a say about anything.

Kilter pushed off the bedpost and took two steps toward me. “Come.”

When I rose, he took my hand and I followed him into the bathroom. He placed me in front of the mirror, him directly behind me. With a gentle caress of his fingertips, he swept my hair away from my neck.

God, the bruises were gone. I turned my head from side to side, and not a single reminder of Anton’s handprints remained on my neck. “Wow,” I whispered.

Kilter’s hands settled on my shoulders and he gently squeezed before slowly sliding them down my arms. “You trusted me.”

“Yeah,” I whispered. I had.

I stared at us in the mirror, Kilter close and towering over me. And me, small and fragile. His arms were muscled and strong with black ink and mine spindly, weak, and pale.

God, when had I become so pale?

I always hated the mirror, hated seeing myself. I still did, but this time, I didn’t see me staring back, I saw a lost, vacant girl standing in a man’s arms.

Kilter’s grip tightened and his brows lowered. “Babe, do you see how thin you are?”

My breath caught in my throat and I tensed. I hated talking about my weight. I hated everything it meant. I shoved my elbow into his ribs, pushing him back. Then I ran from the bathroom.

“Fuck.” I heard him mutter. “Rayne?”

Kilter followed me, but I threw open the bedroom door and took off.





I SLAMMED MY FIST into the doorframe. I f*cked up. Of course, I f*cked up. I’d read the damn book and knew she’d avoid talking about her weight, but it still pissed me off. I was a man of action, progress, and very little patience. Getting her to admit she had a problem was the first step.

According to the book, which I finished in under an hour—a Visionary bonus was being able to read in hyper-speed—if her body weight was twenty percent below average, which Rayne’s was, then she’d be a potential client for a rehabilitation center, if she even had an eating disorder.

I was no f*ckin’ therapist, but her going to some rehab institution was not going to work for me. Rayne had been through hell in that compound, and she’d experienced and seen things regular people didn’t.

Her issues weren’t like others. Fuck the book.

I stormed through the house searching for her, because whatever this was with her, I needed answers and I was a persistent *.

I found her outside standing on the cobblestone path that weaved through the gardens. I watched from ten feet away as the light rain sprinkled her face. Drops slid down her forehead to her cheeks then dripped off her chin to soak into her sweatshirt.

Her eyes were closed and she tilted her face up toward the sky. As she licked the dampness from her lips with the tip of her tongue, there was the hint of a smile on her face. Fuck, she almost looked happy.

And, unfortunately, I was going to destroy that.

As I approached, her back stiffened a second before her eyes opened and our gazes collided.

I stopped in front of her, my eyes taking in her wet hair and damp skin. “You don’t mind the rain?”