Tyrant (Scars of the Wraiths #2)(51)

“I know.” And I did. I saw it in her beaten expression, her eyes drawn and tired. There was no spark, no stubborn gleam.

“Leave me here.” Her voice was barely a whisper and was harsh, probably because of her screaming. “Go home, Damien.”

I snorted. “You’re not getting off that easy.”

She half-smiled; then it fell away. “This is my fault. I did this. I can’t… I can’t do this any longer.” She paused. “And neither can you.” A tear escaped the corner of her eye and I almost reached out to wipe it away.

Do not go near her. I had to keep myself distant. Couldn’t get too close. “You have to eat, Abby. I’ll make you soup. How about mushroom?” I didn’t wait for a response and headed for the door.

“How long, Damien? How long can we do this for?” she asked when my hand reached for the doorknob.

Balen said it could be months, years, or there was a good possibility she’d die. Her and the child. My f*ckin’ child and my little red-haired pixie witch.

I flung open the door then said, “As long as it takes, Abbs. As long as it f*ckin’ takes.”





Six Months Later

I LEFT THERAPY FEELING psychologically drained. Today I’d had a breakthrough, as Rebecca called it—more like a breakdown—and it opened up a part of myself that I thought had died long ago.

It took months of Rebecca constantly urging me to open up, to feel emotions with the role-playing and art. But today we pried open the dark corners of my mind.

Where Anton lived. At least his words did.

The years of constant belittling, telling me over and over again that I was a failure. A disappointment. I was never good enough. And when he shouted at me, which was when I used to fight, he made me feel like a tiny bug on the floor that he squashed with one stomp.

Sometimes he’d put the bug in a glass jar and watch it with those beady eyes until it cowered in the corner. He liked that the best.

He liked me to cower under his glare.

God, when had it happened? When had I become so trapped within myself that I forgot who I was?

Rebecca asked me to take on Anton’s role and she was me. That hit me hardest seeing Rebecca sitting on the couch, hands in her lap, head down, trembling while I, as Anton, shouted at her.

And I hated—Me. It was there right in front of me.

Anton had steamrolled every bit of pride. Seeing that, it made me want to fight harder. And I was angry. I hadn’t been angry in a long time, and it was like I’d been cracked open and pieces of who I was scattered in front of me.

I just had to pick them up and put them back in place.

After the session, I walked home thinking of my safe place to center myself. My steps were self-assured, my shoulders straight, chin lifted. It was weird not worrying about what strangers thought about me as I passed. I wanted to find my voice and fight back. I didn’t want to be scared anymore.

The blanket I lived under—suffocating me for years, yet making me feel safe—lifted a little more each day. It made me feel naked and vulnerable, but it was also freeing.

But there were two issues I hadn’t faced yet. With my weight gain, my abilities had begun to reawaken. The other was Kilter.

A tear escaped and I quickly brushed it aside. He’d lied to me on the rooftop. He’d been cruel and insensitive, but he’d come back. He fought for me.

I knew I saw something in him. There was gentleness and yet, like me, he kept parts of who he was hidden.

Why had he never come to see me? Where did he go? In six months, he never contacted me, and despite not wanting to care, I did. It hurt.

I pushed open the back door of the gallery and walked upstairs, my feet heavier, the bounce in my step slower as thoughts of Kilter lingered.

“Hey, Rayne,” Delara called from the kitchen.

“Hi,” I said. Then my eyes hit Jedrik standing with a beer in his hand while leaning his tall, lithe form against the counter, blond curls untidy and his blue eyes dancing with mischief.

He raised his beer, eyes roaming the length of my body. “Looking totally smokin’ hot, Rayne. Fuck.”

Delara punched his shoulder with the can of soup she was holding. “So inappropriate, *.”

He winced and rubbed his arm. “She needs to know she looks hot. Chicks like that.”

I smiled. “Thanks, Jedrik.”

He winked at me, grinning.

I walked over to the kitchen table and reached into one of the grocery bags, pulling out the milk and placing it in the fridge.

“Arrow was just leaving.” Delara raised her brows. “Weren’t you?”

He shrugged, chugged back the rest of his beer, and set it on the counter before shoving away. “Fine. I have work to do anyway.”

“Work? When was the last time you worked at anything?” Delara put the pancake mix up in the cupboard.

Jedrik chuckled and quirked his brows. “I work. Just at something different than you do.”

“Yeah, you work at getting laid,” Delara retorted.

“Well, that’s hard work. Not all women fall easily for this handsome face. Some like to be wooed. At least, I sleep with women who are aren’t bloodf*ckers who—”

“Shut up, *.” Delara threw a bag of frozen corn at his head. He caught it and set it on the kitchen table.