Meet Kilter & Rayne in
Tyrant by Nashoda Rose!
#ParaRomance
New York Times & USA Today Best Selling Author
Nashoda Rose brings a fresh twist to the paranormal romance world with 'the
Scars'.
“I don’t do nice. Period.” -Kilter (nickname:
Off-Kilter)
Kilter is
crass, reckless and stubborn. He has alienated everyone—just the way he likes
it. Until the day he meets Rayne and emotions he buried long ago reawaken.
“I was nothing but a science experiment.” -Rayne
Rayne has
been locked away and used for research ever since she was a child. The abuse
caused her to withdraw into a tomb of numbness where she’s found a safe place
to hide. But her safe place isn’t safe at all, it’s slowly killing her.
When
Kilter rescues her and she is unexpectedly drawn to his raw honesty, Rayne must
decide whether to trust him and fight for what she can’t see or drown into the
depths of darkness.
For some
Scars, it’s the story of healing and redemption, for others it’s the beginning
of a tortured existence. Which will it be for Kilter and Rayne?
A band of fierce warriors walk in the shadows of the
human world with capabilities derived from the senses: Trackers, Sounders,
Healers, Tasters, Visionaries and the rare Reflectors. They are known as the
‘Scars.
*Stygian
must be read first. 18+
Scars of the Wraiths Series
Stygian
(Scars of the Wraiths, Book 1)
Tyrant
(Scars of the Wraiths, Book 2)
Take
(Scars of the Wraiths, standalone)
Credo
(Scars of the Wraiths, Book 3) (coming 2016)
Author's
Note: Tyrant (Scars of the Wraiths, Book 2) was originally titled
"Step" (Senses Series). The book has been completely re-written.
However, please check your Kindles before purchasing.
I sat
on the cold cement floor of the bathroom, knees to my chest, arms tight around
them as I waited for the door to open.
Booted
steps strode through my adjoining bedroom toward me.
Closer.
Louder.
Goose
bumps scattered. My body trembled as raw fear gripped me. It was like I was
hanging off the side of a cliff by my fingernails, knowing I’d eventually fall
and the pain would come.
Unbearable
pain.
He’d
come. My husband or whoever he’d sent to get me.
There
was no escape. No where to run.
The
heavy thuds stopped outside the bathroom door, and I glimpsed the tall, dark
shadow that filtered through the two-inch gape.
I put
my chin on my knee and closed my eyes, afraid to look. If I didn’t look, then
no one was here. My breath came in short, sharp, quiet gasps and I dug my
fingers into the sides of my thighs so hard, blood trickled down my skin
through my pants.
For
almost a month, I’d expected this day to come, stomach churning every time I
heard someone in the corridor outside my bedroom. Living in a black hole, I was
desperate to get out, but knew the day I did, it was to face punishment for
helping the Scars escape the compound.
The
door pushed open with what sounded like a kick of a boot.
Tears
pooled in my eyes and spilled down my cheeks. I squeezed my eyes shut harder as
fear drilled into me like tiny darts piercing my skin.
Another
step.
Then
another.
Then
nothing.
Please don’t let it be Ben. Anyone but Ben.
“Fuck,
babe. What the hell?”
My
breath hitched at the sound of the familiar, deep voice. A voice I’d never
forget. A voice that gave me hope then snatched it away with his lies.
I
raised my head and locked eyes on the Scar I’d helped escape.
Well,
more like he used me in order to help him and his friend escape.
He was
also the man who had haunted my dreams for weeks since then. And they were
haunting because he was scary. Not ugly scary, far from it, but intense scary.
He had
a chiseled jaw with a few days of scruff and defined cheekbones. His look was
old-world, which made sense since the Scars were immortal, but he definitely
wasn’t an old-world English gentleman. More like a Highland Scot.
A long,
jagged scar dragged from his right brow to his ear and another across his neck,
which attributed to the scary factor. But that wasn’t what did it—that gave him
character, it gave him a story.
It was
his eyes that really intimidated, black and cold without a hint of compassion.
And after spending a night in an air duct with him, I knew, compassion was not
part of his disposition.
Actually,
he’d been an asshole and didn’t try to hide it.
“Get
up.”
I
didn’t move.
I
didn’t know what to do. He’d used me before, so I guessed he was here to use me
again, although the reason was unclear because my husband didn’t have any Scars
in his compound for this guy to break out.
“Babe,
don’t have time for this shit. Get the fuck up.” He didn’t wait for me to get
up, but bent, grabbed my forearm, and hauled me to my feet with a rough yank. I
landed against him, my palms on his chest.
I quickly
shoved back, but his hand remained locked on my forearm, and he didn’t allow me
further than arm’s length. Staring, he performed a quick assessment, his dark
eyes narrowing and trailing down the front of me.
“You
look like shit. Worse, actually.” With the calloused pad of his thumb, he
haphazardly wiped the tears from my cheeks.
I had
no response. I was confused as to why he was here and how he managed to get
into the basement and find me without the alarms blaring.
He
cupped my chin. “You hurt?”
Not
really, but I was an emotional wreck. Did that count?
“You
need to answer me when I ask you a question.”
He was
right, I did, and not because he told me to, but because there was a sliver of
hope. I always had it. Most of the time, it was buried deep, but when my eyes
hit the Scar… it surfaced whether I wanted it to or not.
So,
that hope was him, and pissing him off was going to kill it.
“No,” I
said. He frowned. “I’m not hurt.” Then I had a moment of bravery that came with
the hope. “Ummm, why are you here?”
“Isn’t
it obvious?”
Not
really. But the answer wasn’t important, because he’d lied to me before, so no
matter what he said, it was highly probable it was complete bullshit. And so
was my hope.
His jaw
clenched and his eyes narrowed; yet his hand on my chin was soft and gentle.
“Do I need to fuckin’ carry you?”
What
was he talking about? “Carry me? Carry me where?”
His
lips pursed together as he glared at me with black, unforgiving eyes. “Listen,
babe, I don’t feel like becoming some guy’s lab rat, so I need you to pull your
shit together, answer my questions, stop asking them, and maybe we’ll get out
of here alive.”
Get out
of here? The hope plowed back into me, but I was afraid to grab onto it because
I didn’t dare believe the Scar had come back to get me out of here. Why would
he?
But
there was something different in him than three weeks ago. Maybe it was the way
he gently wiped my tears away or how he held me right now, his fingers no
longer bruising, but holding me steady as if he knew I needed the support.
He was
tall, probably six foot two, and I’d noticed when I was against his chest that
my head tucked under his chin. I also noticed, beneath his black T-shirt, he
was rock-hard with ridges and valleys of muscles.
His
hand moved to the back of my neck. It wasn’t exactly gentle, but more like he
was attempting to get my attention. He already had it, but I was still
confused.
“You
want to get out of this pisshole? ‘Cause if you don’t, tell me now so I can
leave you here and get the fuck out.”
I tried
to lower my head, but his grip on the back of my neck tightened and I was
forced to meet his eyes. “I hate him.” Why did I say that? I mean, I did, but
he didn’t ask me that.
His
brows drew together and his grip on my neck tightened. “Yeah, I got that,
babe.”
Logically,
I should be terrified of him, yet I wasn’t. It was more nervousness than
anything.
There
was a hint of something I recognized in his eyes that was oddly comforting. And
I recognized it because it was the same look I saw in myself; the haunting
tornado of emotions trapped behind a wall.
Our
walls were very different, though. His wall was a shield of anger. Mine was a
shield of numbness.
He let
me go, eyes scanning the bathroom before grabbing my sweatshirt hanging on a
hook on the wall. “Arms up.” I did and he pulled it over my head. “It’s cold
and you don’t have an ounce of fat on you,” he said while his gaze traveled the
length of my body. “Jesus, you look like you’ll break in a gust of wind.” He
swore beneath his breath and shook his head. “You good to run?”
My legs
felt like uncooked spaghetti ready to crack in half at the slightest push and
my heart beat erratically, having to work hard to keep my body functioning. I
was falling apart, so probably the truth would be a hell no, but I nodded
anyway.
He
hesitated then nodded, as if satisfied that, regardless of my lie, he thought
I’d be able to at least keep up.
He
grabbed my hand and pulled me from the bathroom, through the bedroom, to the
door.
He
pulled a knife from a leather sheath at his hip and opened the door, peering
out before looking back at me. “Keep close. Lag behind and I’m not coming back
for you. Understand?”
I
nodded.
I
didn’t trust him, but I did know he would leave me because he’d done it before.
The
fight inside me had died years ago, as had the ability to trust anyone. I had
trusted. I had fought. Neither had done me any good. So now I trusted myself,
and that meant killing parts of who I was.
It
meant protecting me.
Burying
me.
“Babe?”
I
snapped my eyes to his. For a second, I thought his eyes softened, but it was
more wishful thinking on my part. He was probably thinking he’d just made the
stupidest mistake of his life by coming back here. Escaping my husband’s
compound twice had a high probability of failure.
His
fingers curled around my fragile hand, squeezed, then tugged me forward. “Let’s
get the fuck out of this shithole.”
NOW LIVE!
About Nashoda Rose
Nashoda Rose is a New York Times and USA Today bestselling
author who lives in Toronto with her assortment of pets. She writes
contemporary romance with a splash of darkness, or maybe it’s a tidal wave.
When she isn't writing, she can be found sitting in a field
reading with her dogs at her side while her horses graze nearby. She loves
interacting with her readers and chatting about her addiction—books.
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