Tyrant (Scars of the Wraiths #2)(53)

“I don’t think he wants to harm her,” I said, but it didn’t make sense. For years, the Grit had watched Rayne being used by her husband. Why hadn’t he done anything to stop it?

“Still, he must be dealt with. I’m uncertain whether he’s the one who is causing the unrest in the city, but I sense something and we need to find out what it is,” Waleron said.

And that could be why Liam had asked me to stay away from his penthouse for the past three nights. “Shit,” I muttered. The unrest was Liam. I wanted to tell Waleron about Abby, but he’d be obligated to tell the Wraiths and Trinity. That witch-bitch would raise hell.

“I called in Tye. Damien isn’t answering his phone or emails.” Oh shit. “We need to learn more about this Grit and the compound.”

“So you want to question Rayne?”

Waleron nodded. “We also have the issue of Kilter,” Waleron said. “He’ll be angry when he wakes from Rest.” Angry was an understatement. He’d be a volatile fireball who was going to cause serious damage. The question was to who. “And he’ll contact Rayne.”

I toyed with the sequins on the curved neckline of the dress. “She hasn’t mentioned him, but I don’t know. There was something between them.” I noticed Waleron’s eyes on my fingers as I fiddled with the dress and I quickly stopped.

His eyes met mine. “Rayne has become his way of redeeming his past. But he will fail.”

I wanted to retort ‘at least he is trying to redeem his past’—I didn’t. Instead, I turned and reached for my clothes piled on the bench. “We can question Rayne in a couple days, after the gala. Let her have one night of fun before we blow up her world again.” I held my clothes to my chest. “Now, can you get out?”

“Maitagarri,” he said in that low, husky voice.

I was about to fling my jeans at his head when Rayne said, “Delara. How’s the dress?”

“Shit,” I whispered, scowling at Waleron who didn’t seem the least bit concerned that he was in a woman’s change stall with me. “She’s coming, damn it. Go. Trace out of here.”

There was a slight twitch at the corner of his mouth. “I think it’s time she met me.”

“What?” My eyes widened and I made a grab for his arm as he slid the latch and opened the door.





I sat on the old plaid lounge chair in the living room, legs parted, elbows resting on my thighs, hands holding my head as her haunting screams echoed over and over again. The chains… Jesus. I had no choice. But seeing her strain against them, her delicate wrists raw and bleeding—f*ck. It ruined me.

Her pleading.

Her ravaged shouts.

Then the worst hit. Her desperate sobs that sent me to my knees beside the bed, begging her to stop.

But she didn’t.

The child was gone. The baby lost. To her. To me. To us.

My fingers gripped the roots of my hair, nails digging into my scalp. My insides hacksawed and strewn in every direction.

I was a f*ckin’ Scar, and yet this I couldn’t handle.

I ran my hand down my ragged face. “Fuck this. Fuck it.” I kicked the leg of the small coffee table. It collapsed under the jarring pressure and magazines slipped to the floor.

“Damn it!” I kicked the offensive table again.

I’d been on the phone with Anstice half the night. Then resorted to threats if she didn’t come and help me. That was when Keir got on the phone and threatened me. He refused to allow Anstice anywhere near Abby. Shit, it wasn’t safe for anyone near Abby.

The blood.

The image would haunt me for a lifetime, and since I was immortal, that was a f*ck of a long time. I was good with blood. I killed. I slit men’s throats and watched them bleed out.

But it was Abbs and it was our baby.

When she miscarried I’d run into the bathroom and threw up. Then I took out my cell and tapped in Anstice’s number, shouting.

Abby was dying. It was over.

Anstice remained quiet until I stopped ranting. Then she calmly gave me instructions on what to do. I had no choice. I wanted to get the f*ck out of there, but leaving Abbs chained to the bedpost bleeding…Fuck, I couldn’t.

So, I did what I had to do and, eventually, the horror ended. But I knew what happened last night would never really end. It was engraved in me.

Abby finally lay dazed and confused, her eyes glassy, her skin pale. So f*ckin’ pale. I had no idea if she knew what happened—that she’d lost the baby—because often the next morning she had no recollection of the night before.

Fuck, I couldn’t tell her. Don’t make me tell her.

I’d sat beside the bed and watched Abby for hours after that. Making certain the bleeding had stopped. Then while she slept I performed the grueling task of washing her body and changing the sheets.

Balen had just left. He’d driven here to take the baby.

I never wanted a child. But I never wanted her to lose it. And not like this. Never like this.

There was grief for the loss I never expected. Could we have had a chance?

No. The child never had a chance. We didn’t.

“Christ.” I squeezed my eyes shut, attempting to get rid of the images from last night, but they continually tormented me.

Abbs. Fuck.