Page 100 of Shades of Silver City

When I agreed to work for Archer, I thought we’d be out in the Packing District, scouring for soul-shades or something dramatic. I pictured us fighting the Reaper, knocking that shadowy fucker back to the Wilds or whatever realm he crawled out of.

I did not think I’d be sitting in Archer’s house getting ready for some bullshit ball a day after almost being arrested by the Scouts, a day after seeing Godric almost die on the floor. I will never forget how his ribs expanded and deflated beneath my palms, his breathing coming in shallow gasps.

My heart hasn’t slowed its pace all day, and I’m still jumping at every sound. Honestly, I think I’m on edge because Archer isn’t here. Scathe’s around, though, which is the only thing settling my nerves.

Taking a deep breath, I lean closer to the bathroom mirror and apply another coat of lipstick. It’s an expensive matte shade called Black Cherry—Mellie gifted it to me for my birthday last year—and it’s so dark it’s almost black. It, combined with the winged, smoky eye makeup, contrasts sharply with my pale skin and hair, making for an incredibly dramatic look.

I might feel like shit on the inside, but at least I can use my makeup as a mask to help me hide.

A trio of sharp raps on the bedroom door causes me to jump.

“Sirius A!” I call out, my hand flying to my chest. I take a few breaths to quell my pounding heart. “Already?!”

Archer said he wasn’t going to be here until ten to pick me up, and it’s only—

I glance at the time on my phone.

Oh.

10:00 p.m. on the dot. The event starts at eleven. I was told this by Pixel when she dropped off dresses for me. A midnight masquerade.

Cursing under my breath, I adjust my nose ring and dart out of the bathroom.

“Give me ten more minutes,” I say as I whip open the bedroom door. “I’m almost…”

I forget what I’m going to say as I catch sight of my fake date for the evening.

Archer leans against the wall across from my door, ankles crossed.

He wears the most elegant suit I’ve ever seen up close. His black jacket is adorned with textured beading, perfectly accented by a gold vest and matching bow tie.

My cheeks heat as I ogle the way the fabric hugs his strong thighs and tapered waist just right. Everything is fitted—not too loose, not too snug—as if the outfit was made just for him.

“Hey,” I say breathlessly. I get a whiff of something like gasoline and smoke—it’s faint but prominent enough to make me curious. “Why do you smell like you just came from a bonfire?”

His face darkens, but he doesn’t reply. He runs a hand through his carelessly styled dirty-blond hair. My eyes linger on the dark ink marking his neck and hands. Something’s different about him tonight.

There’s an air of danger about him.

Squinting, I notice that his soul-shade is a little richer than normal. A honey-gold, rather than the bright, iridescent gold it normally is. I frown. Are the lights playing tricks on my eyes?

Or am I perhaps misremembering the hue? It’s still gold, after all.

“Tasia?” he mutters.

Our eyes connect, and my mouth dries out. His gaze bores into my soul, heating me from the inside out. For a moment, neither of us says anything.

His eyes slowly roam my body, and his forehead briefly wrinkles in confusion before he quirks a brow.

I can’t stand the intensity, so I cross my arms and break eye contact in favor of scanning his body again. He holds something shiny in his hand, but I can’t quite make out what it is.

“What are you wearing?” he asks, his voice low.

The deep baritone rumbles down my spine.

“I lost track of time,” I say. “All I have to do is change and fix my hair. I’ll be quick.”

I spin around and step deeper into the room, but his fingers gently skim my wrist. There’s nothing aggressive about it, and he doesn’t grab me. Based on the tenderness in his touch, he only means to snag my attention, and it works.

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