“You see that? Fuck, I kicked ass,” Quill said as he drove down the road, the buildings in the compound blowing up one by one, domino style. The car weaved onto the shoulder as Quill looked in the rearview mirror, watching his handiwork. “Hey, this goes sour with Waleron, I was not here.”
I shrugged. “My business stays my business.”
“Well, they’ll be crawling up your ass the second you walk in the Toronto house with her in tow.” He gestured over his right shoulder to the backseat. “Don’t think Waleron’s going to play nice after you deliberately disobeyed his orders.”
Yeah, well, Waleron never played nice.
All the Scars would be in my face about this, but I couldn’t care less. I did what had to be done, and screw Waleron and anyone else who told me what to do. Ryker had known that and given me space. Now, our fuckin’ Talde was destroyed because of Rayne’s husband. Bastards had killed Sandor, Derek, and Ryker’s wife, his maite, Hannah.
Now, I was holed up in Toronto with Keir, his woman Anstice, Jedrik, Delara, and the Scar Taldeburu, Waleron, who didn’t live there but was around often enough. And he was around because of some fucked up past he had with Delara, although that was never talked about.
“You going to tell me who she is? And why I saw CWOs and humans in that place fighting on the same side.”
I glanced over at the paper-thin chick huddled close to the car door, cheek leaning against it. Her hands were clutched in her lap, not relaxed because the tips were white from pressing them together so hard. Her expression was blank, eyes looking out the window, but I doubt she saw anything.
“Nope.”
Quill honked the horn at a sluggish van as he weaved around it. “Get off the bloody road if you can’t go the speed limit!” Quill was a Taster, meaning he had the gift of tasting emotions of those around him.
In the compound, he would’ve tasted a putrid expulsion of milk a year after its expiry date if there were persons being tortured or suffering. The only one he’d noticed was Rayne.
“Why the hell not?” he asked.
“Don’t feel like it.”
Quill snorted, pressed on the accelerator, and the car jerked forward. He was hell-bent on beating some kind of record as he drove like a maniac to the airport. I didn’t know the guy very well as he was from the West Coast Talde in Vancouver, but from what I did know: intense when need be, expert in explosives, and could detonate bombs using his mind—the very reason I’d contacted him. He was also considered easygoing, although he obviously had a pet peeve for slow drivers.
“Fine. Then what’s the plan?”
“No plan,” I said.
“No plan?”
“What’s there to plan? Got her out. Compound in flames. Not much else to plan.”
Quill inhaled a long-drawn breath. He was a big guy, bulky big with tree trunks for legs and arms pretty much the same. But the guy was light as hell on his feet by the way he’d scaled that fuckin’ twelve foot wall like a cat.
“Got to have a plan. The girl is obviously human and can’t stay with the Scars. Waleron will erase her—”
I grated out, “Waleron doesn’t fuckin’ touch her.”
Quill put up his hands briefly then lowered them back to the steering wheel. “Hey, trying to help out, asshole. Want some advice?”
“Fuck, no.” I shook my head, knowing I was getting it anyway. Quill and I had been emailing for the last few weeks, and I realized he liked to ask questions and give advice.
I liked neither.
“Tell Delara about her first. Waleron likes her, maybe she can ease the blow.”
“Don’t need a woman easing the blow.”
“Yeah. You do. For this, you do.”
I grunted.
I ran my hand back and forth over my head before glancing at Rayne. Jesus, she looked like a beat-up kitten that had been starved for months. And what pissed me off was she looked worse than she had a few weeks ago. Dark circles under her eyes, thinner, if that was possible, and pale. Vampire pale.
A strange feeling seeped into me and I knew what it was—guilt.
Fuck.
I never felt guilt. Ever. It was a useless emotion. I owned my actions and never regretted anything. Not anymore. It helped that I didn’t give a shit about anyone.
I had nothing to feel guilty about. It wasn’t my fault she’d married a jackass. But from what I’d researched on her husband, Anton Thurston had been her guardian since she was ten years old. Married her when she was eighteen. Sick bastard. He was three times her age and had been her parents’ friend.
The SUV skidded to a halt and Quill slammed it into park before opening his door and hopping out. I got out on the opposite side, walked around the car, and then opened the passenger door.
Rayne sat up and looked at me, but made no move to undo her seatbelt, so I leaned over her and unclicked it myself.
“Let’s go,” I ordered, straightening.