Tyrant (Scars of the Wraiths #2)(28)

“What are you doing here?”

She dropped her towel on the bench and moved to the blue mat in front of the floor-to-ceiling mirror. She clasped her hands together, then put her arms over her head and stretched. “Waleron called a meeting this morning. I’m early, so I thought I’d workout.”

I grunted.

“Care for a quick grapple?” Delara asked, raising her thin, arched brows as she spread her legs shoulder width apart and bent, touching the floor with her palms, and bounced.

I scowled. “You’re a f*ckin’ chick.”

She straightened. “And you’re an *, but I’ll still fight you.”

I walked over to the bench and took off the wraps on my hands.

“What? You scared a chick will kick your ass?”

Now, that was just immature. “I might kill you and have to deal with Waleron.”

“Oh, he won’t care. Come on, don’t be a *.”

Bitch. And also brave. I may have lived in a different Talde from Delara, but her history with Waleron was well known throughout the Scar world, and he sure as hell would f*ckin’ care.

“Best three of five.” I strolled over to the mat. Delara wanted to wrestle and show her shit, fine; I’d show her why women and men never competed against one another. I stopped in front of her, brows lifting with a subtle smirk. “Oh, and I’d recommend you shower that vampire scent off you before your little meeting with Waleron.”

She shrugged. “He already knows.”

Interesting. “Fucking a vampire. Liam?” She didn’t have to tell me; I saw the truth all over her face. Waleron’s girl f*cking a vampire—now that was explosive. Because despite them not being together, Delara belonged to Waleron. “Don’t give a shit who you f*ck.” I widened my stance. “You ready to have your ass kicked?”

“Trained by the best, you know,” Delara said.

Yeah, I knew. Waleron trained her. “Still a woman.”

“Let’s make a deal, shall we?”

“There’s nothing I want you could possibly give me,” I said.

Delara smiled while taking her stance—arms out, legs parted, knees bent. “I need—”

I interrupted. “And I don’t f*ck on bets.”

“Oh, get over yourself.” She held up her hand when I went to say something. “I want someone to teach me to cook, and I heard you were surprisingly good at it.”

“I f*ckin’ excel at it.”

“Even better. I win, you give me five lessons. If you win, what do you want?”

“For you to shut up,” I said.

Delara rolled her eyes. “Fine, I won’t talk to you for an entire week.”

I grunted to cover my laugh. Damn, I kind of liked her, but I was still taking her down. “Ready to slap the mat?”

Delara lowered her stance. “You ready to call mercy?”

“Not going to happen.” I made my move.




Delara nearly kicked my ass—and well deserving. I gave credit when it was due, and she was one hell of a grappler. Shit, she’d landed me on my ass twice before I’d had enough and had her yelling mercy.

I jogged up the stairs and into the kitchen to grab a drink, sweat running down my chest and across my brow.

I stopped.

My feet became thousand-pound lead weights, as my eyes took in everyone standing in the adjoining living room. My eyes narrowed and heart skipped a beat. What the hell was going on?

Delara came up behind me. I didn’t need to see her face to know something shitty was about to happen and it wasn’t just a meeting between Waleron and Delara.

“What the hell is this?” I ground out.

I tried to enter their minds, but every single one of them was vaulted shut. I looked over my shoulder at Delara, but she stepped back and refused to say anything.

A billow of mist appeared by the doorway into the living room from the foyer and my hands curled into fists. Great—Waleron.

I was not a fan of their coldhearted Taldeburu, and I sure as f*ck hated when he morphed into a room. The Taldeburu was as merciless as they came. He protected the Scars with a steel glove and didn’t take crap from anyone.

Waleron’s good points—no bullshit, and his loyalty to the Scars was unmatched.

Waleron was six foot three, kept his head shaved, and had ice-blue eyes, which on occasion had been known to look almost white when he was pissed—although he rarely lost his cool. He had one hell of a snake tattoo. His Ink came up from under his black T-shirt to his neck and curled behind his left ear.

As far as I knew, Waleron’s Ink hadn’t been released since the day he escaped from that bitch Lilac’s lair. It wasn’t exactly known what happened, only that Waleron and his Scar went insane with fury. When he returned, he was cool and calm like always, as if he hadn’t been tortured and held captive for sixty-one years. Except it was a different calmness, more like a silence of emotion.

His ice-blue eyes turned to me, and they weren’t happy. “You went back to the compound when I specifically said it was off-limits until we assessed the situation.”

“She needed out.” I glanced at his Ink. It remained still, but its eyes glowed red. Fuck, yeah, he was pissed.

“Yes, but we needed to find out what they were doing there and you went and blew everything up.”