week.”
Kilter grunted back a laugh. “Ready to call mercy?”
Delara crouched, stance wide. “I so can’t wait to see you in an apron.”
****
Kilter needed an ice-cold drink after Delara nearly kicked his butt. He gave credit when it was due, and she was one hell of a grappler. Shit, she’d landed him on his ass two times before he’d had enough and taken her down.
He walked up the stairs and into the kitchen, sweat running down his chest and across his brow. He stopped dead. His feet became thousand-pound lead weights, as soon as he saw the men standing as if . . . his eyes narrowed, and his heart skipped a beat. What the fuck was going on?
Delara came up behind him. He didn’t need to see her face to know that something shitty was happening, and it wasn’t just some meeting Waleron called. He felt it emanating from every sweat gland in the room.
“What the hell is this?” Kilter growled. He tried to enter their minds, but every single one of them was vaulted shut. He looked at Delara, but she stepped back and refused to say anything.
A cloud of mist appeared. His hands curled into fists. Great, just what he needed—Waleron to ruin his day.
He was not a fan of their coldhearted Taldeburu, and he sure as shit hated when he morphed into a room. The Big Guy was an enigma and as merciless as they came. He protected the Senses with a steel glove and didn’t take crap from any of them. Even him.
His good point s—he never beat around the bush and lived by the code of honesty and loyalty.
Waleron matched his six -foot-three height, but was slightly broader in the shoulders. He kept his hair shaved short, just leaving a hint of brown hair, had ice-blue eyes that on occasion had been known to flash red when he was pissed—although he rarely lost his cool—and he had one hell of a tattoo that came up from under his black T-shirt to his neck then curled behind his left ear.
As far as he knew, Waleron’s Scar remained latched onto him, having never been released since the day he escaped from that bitch Lilac’s lair. It wasn’t exactly known what happened, only that he and his Scar went insane with fury. When he returned to them, 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 dead emotion.
“We must discuss Rayne,” Waleron announced. “She is to be taken to a rehabilitation center today.”
Kilter jolted, his blood running cold. Every muscle contracted. Over his dead body. He glanced at each of their faces and noticed how they all avoided looking directly at him. They knew. They all bloody well knew. There was no discussion about it, it was just decided.
He mana ged two strides towards the stairs before Waleron stopped him. Cold fingers gripped his arm. “No, Kilter,” Waleron said in a bitter warning tone.
Fuck that.
He jerked his arm out of Waleron’s grasp and ignored his Taldeburu’s ice-blue eyes, which narrowed with forewarning.
His own eyes were bleeding with rage, red-hot beams glowing like a roaring fire. He managed to keep his vision in control most of the times, but fury made him react instinctively.
“Kilter , man, she needs help,” Jedrik said.
He swung his gaze to Jedrik, and his vision took control as the antique vase behind Jedrik smashed into tiny fragments. Screw control, this was exactly why he never trusted anyone. They went behind his back and did what they thought was best. No consulting. No discussion. Nothing.
She was not being locked away. An image of her eyes staring up at him filled with fear and anxiety. The betrayal laced with mistrust. My God, she’d never forgive him. He knew what it was like to lose faith in someone’s words and he couldn’t do that to her. He wouldn’t. Not again.
Kilter managed two more steps towards the stairs before he felt a hold on him that refused to give way no matter how hard he tried to move his body.
Kilter grunted back a laugh. “Ready to call mercy?”
Delara crouched, stance wide. “I so can’t wait to see you in an apron.”
****
Kilter needed an ice-cold drink after Delara nearly kicked his butt. He gave credit when it was due, and she was one hell of a grappler. Shit, she’d landed him on his ass two times before he’d had enough and taken her down.
He walked up the stairs and into the kitchen, sweat running down his chest and across his brow. He stopped dead. His feet became thousand-pound lead weights, as soon as he saw the men standing as if . . . his eyes narrowed, and his heart skipped a beat. What the fuck was going on?
Delara came up behind him. He didn’t need to see her face to know that something shitty was happening, and it wasn’t just some meeting Waleron called. He felt it emanating from every sweat gland in the room.
“What the hell is this?” Kilter growled. He tried to enter their minds, but every single one of them was vaulted shut. He looked at Delara, but she stepped back and refused to say anything.
A cloud of mist appeared. His hands curled into fists. Great, just what he needed—Waleron to ruin his day.
He was not a fan of their coldhearted Taldeburu, and he sure as shit hated when he morphed into a room. The Big Guy was an enigma and as merciless as they came. He protected the Senses with a steel glove and didn’t take crap from any of them. Even him.
His good point s—he never beat around the bush and lived by the code of honesty and loyalty.
Waleron matched his six -foot-three height, but was slightly broader in the shoulders. He kept his hair shaved short, just leaving a hint of brown hair, had ice-blue eyes that on occasion had been known to flash red when he was pissed—although he rarely lost his cool—and he had one hell of a tattoo that came up from under his black T-shirt to his neck then curled behind his left ear.
As far as he knew, Waleron’s Scar remained latched onto him, having never been released since the day he escaped from that bitch Lilac’s lair. It wasn’t exactly known what happened, only that he and his Scar went insane with fury. When he returned to them, 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 dead emotion.
“We must discuss Rayne,” Waleron announced. “She is to be taken to a rehabilitation center today.”
Kilter jolted, his blood running cold. Every muscle contracted. Over his dead body. He glanced at each of their faces and noticed how they all avoided looking directly at him. They knew. They all bloody well knew. There was no discussion about it, it was just decided.
He mana ged two strides towards the stairs before Waleron stopped him. Cold fingers gripped his arm. “No, Kilter,” Waleron said in a bitter warning tone.
Fuck that.
He jerked his arm out of Waleron’s grasp and ignored his Taldeburu’s ice-blue eyes, which narrowed with forewarning.
His own eyes were bleeding with rage, red-hot beams glowing like a roaring fire. He managed to keep his vision in control most of the times, but fury made him react instinctively.
“Kilter , man, she needs help,” Jedrik said.
He swung his gaze to Jedrik, and his vision took control as the antique vase behind Jedrik smashed into tiny fragments. Screw control, this was exactly why he never trusted anyone. They went behind his back and did what they thought was best. No consulting. No discussion. Nothing.
She was not being locked away. An image of her eyes staring up at him filled with fear and anxiety. The betrayal laced with mistrust. My God, she’d never forgive him. He knew what it was like to lose faith in someone’s words and he couldn’t do that to her. He wouldn’t. Not again.
Kilter managed two more steps towards the stairs before he felt a hold on him that refused to give way no matter how hard he tried to move his body.
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