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I BOLTED UPRIGHT THEsecond I heard the bedroom door creak open. I’d always been a light sleeper, needed to be with where I grew up and never wanting to be caught unaware.
“Kilter,” I whispered when I saw him in the doorway. I pulled the duvet up to my neck, my heart pounding as he approached the bed.
I hadn’t seen him in three days, and I knew it was because, after our conversation in the garden, he was trying to give me space. I’d read the six books I’d found in the nightstand drawers on either side of the bed while sitting in front of the window with the breeze lightly caressing my face.
“Babe.” He stopped beside the bed.
His hooded eyes had dark circles beneath them and his hair was tousled and damp as if he’d just come out of the shower. I breathed in and smelled his soap—it was nice. Really nice. He always smelled nice. And this was why I avoided him. He made me feel different. He made me want to trust him.
“Made you a protein shake. It’s in the kitchen.” I recognized the pattern, putting food in front of me, hoping I’d suddenly gorge myself. Anton did it for years until he realized it wouldn’t work.
He inhaled as if he was about to say something else but changed his mind. His temples pulsed and his brows lowered. It was his usual scowl, but it was his hands clenching and unclenching that concerned me, because he appeared uneasy. Was he waiting for me to reply?
“Umm, okay. Thanks.”
He gave a curt nod, half-turned, then ran a hand over his two-day-old stubble. “The others think you should be in a rehabilitation center.”
I tensed. A rehabilitation center?
“Your weight.” A low growl emerged. “Fuck, babe, I’ll fight them on this. I am fighting them. It’s not the right place for you.” Kilter’s brows furrowed and his eyes darkened. “I won’t let them take you. I’ll convince them. You know that, don’t you?”
But he couldn’t stop them, could he? They were Scars, plural, and he was just one. I suspected Kilter could and would take on ten of them if he chose to, but odds were against him.
He reached out and pushed a stray strand of hair back from my cheek to rest behind my ear. It was a slow, deliberate touch, the tips of his fingers burning a path over my skin.
I swallowed, unable to breathe as his intense eyes drove into mine. The chocolate smoldered, my heart skipped a beat and my belly whooshed.
“I’ll get you help, you need help, but for you, that isn’t the way.”
I nodded and lowered my eyes from his. Keeping my shields in place with Kilter was getting harder.
He put his hand under my chin and forced me to meet his eyes. “I need you to trust me. Can you do that?”
I did, sort of. But I didn’t trust his friends. A shiver coursed through my body at the thought of being locked up again. No. Never again. I’d rather die.
Kilter’s thumb stroked my chin. “Need a response, babe.”
“I’m trying.” It was the best I could do.
He hesitated several seconds, eyes searching mine, and then he nodded. “I’ll be in the gym if you need me.”
I watched him leave, wishing I could trust his words, but knowing it was safer to stay hidden.
I sat on the bench in the gym, wrapping my hands and wrists while images of Rayne screwed with my head. My gut told me she was hiding something, but, fuck, I couldn’t get into her thoughts and she was afraid to trust me.
I got it. Fuck, she shouldn’t trust anyone after what she’d been through, but it was still frustrating.
Anstice and Keir were right; she was in desperate need of help. Therapy. Intense. And fast. I considered calling Danni. She was a Reflector and could easily read emotions and might be able to get into her head. The problem was, Rayne’s mind had an impenetrable barrier around it and Danni was new to the Scars.
There was Xamien. He was an Ancient, a Taldeburu, a Reflector, and his grandmother had been a witch. Powerful as fuck. He might be able to reach her, but it was doubtful he would fly from Spain to Toronto to help a chick who wasn’t a Scar.
I rose, walked over to the bag, and took my first punch. The red canvas smacked against my knuckles. I hit it again and again, bouncing off my toes, switching up the punches.
An hour or two on the bag was a sure-as-shit way to get rid of whatever pulsed through the body, to exhaust and numb out emotions. I’d learned to use exercise over the past hundred years, when I’d been living in my own black void of self-despair.
I had no idea how long I’d been hitting the bag when I heard the door to the gym open. I didn’t bother to look up.
