Tyrant (Scars of the Wraiths #2)(24)

I didn’t like having that effect on him. I briefly closed my eyes and took a deep breath. “It gives me strength—the rain, sun, moon, wind.” I felt his eyes on me, and with a quick glance up at him, I saw the scowl was gone. “Nature is powerful and can be ruthless, and yet it gives us life.” I paused, chewing on my lower lip. “It lends it to me—its strength. It was the one punishment my husband knew would hurt me the most. He’d lock me up in my room with no window. No sun or moon, wind or rain.” Kilter swore beneath his breath. “If he threatened to lock me away, I’d do whatever he wanted. He knew that. I let him discover my weakness, and he used it against me. I should’ve known better.” God, please don’t use this against me.

Kilter grunted. “The bastard would’ve found out, babe. He had you since you were a child. There was nothing you could’ve done, except survive, and you did. You survived. That’s strength.”

I shrugged. “It doesn’t matter anymore.”

“It matters if you keep running.”

I darted a quick look at him and saw compassion in his hooded eyes. Or was it pity? I didn’t want his pity; I was ashamed of myself already. Having Kilter look at me like that when he had so much courage was debilitating.

He knew nothing of my life. And yet, he’d understood when he heard my scream on the rooftop and came back for me. And he was trying to be gentle and kind when it went against everything he was.

He didn’t trust the Scars, I saw that in how he spoke and reacted to them. There was a reason behind it, and I suspected it was bad. Maybe worse than what I’d suffered, and yet he was strong. I wasn’t. I hated that.

I reached for him, my hand lightly touching his forearm. His eyes darted to me and I quickly drew back. What was I doing?

If he delved any further, he’d discover too much.

We strolled back to the house, inches separating us, and I listened to his breath, his heartbeat, and breathed in his scent.

Kilter was comforting and I wanted to let him in.

But the risk was too great. I couldn’t take the chance.





“COME ON, WE NEED somewhere private.”

I went to grab her arm but changed my mind and jogged across the street. The clatter of heels followed and I heard her swear as she tried to keep up with me.

Too bad. I loved a chick in sexy heels, liked to f*ck a chick in sexy heels, but not a witch who had a vampire after her.

I walked down Niagara Street, heading for Danielle’s art gallery. It was closed, being a Monday, but I had a key. Delara was currently avoiding the Talde house and Waleron, so she stayed at the gallery.

I pulled out my cell, scrolled for Delara’s name then pressed Send. It went straight to voice mail. “Breaking and Entering the gallery. Need privacy. Call me.” She’d probably think I was using her place for a quick f*ck.

“Can you slow—”

“Don’t say a f*ckin’ word,” I interrupted.

And she didn’t for the ten-minute walk, just the annoying click of her shoes on the pavement.

What pissed me off about this chick? Maybe the fact that she’d followed me to the bar, used her looks to get my attention, and then hit me with shit I didn’t need. I should’ve told her to screw off and jumped in the cab. But I needed to hear this, one way or another, because witches were on the same side as us whether we liked it or not.

Maybe this was no big deal. Witch chick—who looked eighteen—had been dumped by Liam and was overreacting. Made sense since Delara was his new f*ck partner.

I’d listen to her sob story about how Liam was an ass then toss her in a cab and get back to drinking the rest of my day in solitude.

Stopping in front of the gallery on Queen Street, I reached in my front jean pocket and took out the keys, unlocking the door. I didn’t bother flicking on the lights and strode to the back of the gallery, saying over my shoulder, “Lock it.”

I heard the bolt click then her annoying heels again as she followed me. Opening the little fridge, I shifted the milk and orange juice aside and grabbed two beers. I shut the fridge door with my foot, and used my key to open the bottles, setting one on the counter for Abigail, or Abby, what-the-f*ck-ever.

I leaned back against the counter, raised my beer, and gulped half of it back. When I lowered it, I nodded to her. “Okay, let’s hear it so I can get on with my already pisser of a week.”

She made no move to take the beer; instead, she peered at Danni’s art as if this was a private showing. Just when I was going to kick her ass out to the curb and say screw it, she turned toward me.

“I didn’t know who else to ask for help. Trinity would—”

“Fuck!” That’s where I recognized her name from, the wild-child Abigail. Rumor had it that Trinity raised this chick since she was a kid. Something about the girl’s mother, Leona, killing herself before a horde of vampires had the chance to do it.

“Great. Just f*ckin’ great. Trinity’s errant witch. I should’ve known.” The one person who hated Delara—Trinity. “I get it, no need to explain. Trinity’s a vile bitch and would set you on fire if she knew you had anything to do with a vampire.”

“Yeah, something like that,” she replied, running her fingers through her hair, making the longer strands in front, which cupped her face, fall forward. “Liam’s new girl—” she began.