Tyrant (Scars of the Wraiths #2)(49)

“And your father, what was he like?”

“I sought his approval for everything. I remember wanting to make him proud, but I don’t think he was.” I didn’t remember much of him because my memories were mostly of Anton.

“I’m certain that isn’t true, Rayne. Your perception maybe, which is a pattern of anorexia—never feeling good enough. But it isn’t true.”

It didn’t matter anymore. My father was gone.

“Did Anton take your father’s place? Maybe he was the one you could never please?”

My heart beat against my chest and my eyes darted to her. I hated talking about Anton and she knew it. “What do you mean?”

“He was your guardian. Is it possible you tried to make Anton proud, needing that approval since you could no longer get it from your father?”

It sucked that she was so insightful, but then again, maybe it didn’t.

I was getting better. My legs no longer trembled when I walked and I hadn’t felt dizzy in over a week. But still, every piece of food I put in my mouth I thought about, and it was a battle.

“Maybe. I don’t know.” But I did. I did try over and over again to please Anton, but it was never good enough. He forced me to use my abilities, and I was never strong enough or good enough for him. He pushed me and pushed me for hours a day. Even when I was exhausted, he forced me to do more, to try harder.

I sighed, tossing the pillow aside. “I could never live up to Anton’s expectations.”

“He was a terrible man, Rayne. You’d never meet his expectations, no matter how hard you tried.”

He’d trained me as if I were a robot, pushing me until I collapsed. When we moved to the compound, it became worse.

I remember a woman being there. I’d never forget her because I thought she was Anton’s wife or something and she was to become my new mother. But, after that day, I rarely saw her. Roarke joined us then and I discovered I wasn’t the only one who was different. Of course, Rebecca couldn’t be told any of this. All she knew was I married my guardian who’d been abusive and controlling.

“You were a child who lost her parents in a horrific accident. Of course, you needed approval and love from whoever was closest to you. Unfortunately, that became Anton. We will reconstruct your perception of not being good enough. We’ll need one incident from when you were a child. Let’s start with a memory with your father. Okay?”

I nodded and took out my journal and wrote about the day my father taught me how to ride a bike on my fourth birthday. I remember he was upset because I continuously fell.

As Rebecca helped me rewrite the story, I realized he hadn’t been upset or disappointed with my inability. He’d been upset I fell so many times and scraped my knees and palms.

He hurt because I hurt.

When had that changed? When had my perception of that story changed to something ugly?

There’d been tears in his eyes as he watched me obstinately get back up on my bike again and again.

He’d been proud of me for never giving up.





Weeks of constant thirst, my mouth so dry it felt as if I had sandpaper for a tongue and dried glue at the back of my throat. But it wasn’t water I craved; it was warm blood. The urgency to sink my teeth into anything that had a heartbeat. Everything else around me was a blur and I couldn’t focus on anything except blood.

I heard a voice in the distance, an echo inside my head, as if it were my own, but different. “Please,” it said. It was begging and harsh with a hiss in every word.

“I brought you water,” a voice said.

The bed sagged and the scent grew stronger. Blood. Fresh blood. It would end the thirst, end the pain.

But through my hazy vision and my bloodthirst-driven mind, I saw him—Damien.

No. God no, don’t make me.

But the urgency was too strong, like a great white shark seeing bloody prey. My control no longer existed. Only the instinct to take what my body needed in order to survive.

A strange unfamiliar hiss emerged from my mouth as I dove for his throat.

My fingernails ripped into his neck first, the scent of blood magnifying as I saw red rise to the surface of his skin.

Glass shattered and hands grabbed my upper arms, tearing me away and throwing me back onto the bed.

“Abbs. Fuck. Stop.” The voice shouted like a tuba banging inside my head. Damien? What was wrong with him? Why did he sound panicked?

Thirsty.

So thirsty.

Damien was forgotten as the overpowering scent of blood threw me into a fierce frenzy. I licked my lips and frantically struggled against the hands holding me down.

“Nooo!” I screamed.

My voice was no longer distinguishable as I cursed and hissed, fighting the restraints of his hands. He forced me to lie back, his weight on top of me. His hands dug into my shoulders, pressing my slight frame into the mattress. My body flung back and forth, desperate to get free and end the torture.

Just one drop to stop the pain.

“Abbs, for Christ’s sake, listen to my voice.”

I shook my head, managing to get an arm free as my knee came up between us. I punched, hitting something hard, not knowing what, but I heard a grunt. My other arm was released as the weight on me suddenly lifted.

“Fuck,” he said.

My eyes widened as he stood beside the bed.