Page 61 of Shades of Silver City

The stranger narrows his eyes at me, and I swear the man doesn’t blink once as we have a silent standoff for a good thirty seconds.

Archer laughs in spite of his friend’s harshness, and all the tension leaves my body. Unfazed, he treks toward the house, waving us after him.

“Don’t touch his shit,” Archer’s friend says. He shoots one last glare at me, slamming the compartment shut, then joins Archer.

I jolt, backing away from the bike. “Okay, grumpy,” I mutter.

Archer laughs with his friend as they head toward his house, and I hesitate to follow. When they reach the front door, Archer pets Scathe, then glances back, giving me a reassuring smile. My heart squeezes. The lazy golden glow hovering around him seals the deal for me, and my feet move on their own accord. I cross the lawn and ascend the few stout porch steps to his front door.

As we step inside the house, we’re greeted by a charming entryway with a small bench, extra dog leashes hanging on a hook, and what I assume is a closet door. The spacious, open-floor plan allows me to see through the house and out the sliding glass doors all the way to the large, fenced-in backyard. My attention snags on the only piece of real furniture: a sofa sitting awkwardly against one of the walls, still adorned with a price tag. Ripped cardboard lies scattered around it, as if someone recently unboxed it and put it together.

Shifting my gaze to the left, I check out the modern kitchen, which boasts an array of shiny appliances and an impressive amount of cupboard space. The staircase, tucked into the far side of the kitchen, curves out of sight as it ascends to the second floor.

I guess he’s just moved in, since everything is so fresh, pristine, and downright bare.

Archer kneels beside the dog and unhooks the leash, hanging it on the hook by the door. His face takes on the cutest grin as he scratches the dog’s neck animatedly.

“That’s my good boy. Daddy wubs you.”

I stifle a laugh. “Daddy?” I mouth to his friend, whose lips quirk in response.

After a minute, Archer turns his attention to me, beaming. “This is Scathe.”

Reaching down, I mindlessly scratch the dog’s scruff. “No shit.” Archer makes a huffing sound. “Sorry—I know. Language,” I say before he gets a chance.

At this, the stranger makes a humored noise under his breath.

Archer gestures toward the guy. “And this is Godric—a good friend.”

The name sounds familiar, and I mull it over in my mind for a moment before gritting my teeth and saying, “You’re the asshole that tied me up.”

“And you’re the asshole who was going to get us all killed by freaking out in front of the Reaper.”

I squirm, hating the amount of information he has on me. But clearly he can also see the Reaper, which is telling. If Archer trusts him, I suppose I should, too. Not like I have a choice.

“Touché.” I nod at Godric. “I’m Tasia.”

“I know who you are.” Godric gives me a curt nod in return, all traces of his previous amusement gone.

Taking a moment to study the man, I notice the cobalt hue around Godric’s body. I’m still not sure what the colors mean—Dad was killed while he was still studying the personality traits associated with different shades—but these days, I’m relieved when a soul-shade is anything but grey.

Godric clears his throat, and I quickly avert my eyes so I’m not staring at him like a weirdo.

I turn to Archer instead and am mesmerized by the movement of his body as he sheds his leather jacket and bends down to untie his boots. My eyes hungrily roam his dark T-shirt that hugs his toned chest. His fingers nimbly work the laces, and his forearm muscles flex as he pulls off his boots one at a time. Among the plethora of ink script and detailing, I catch a glimpse of the name “Sofia” on the tender skin of his inner left arm.

My traitorous stomach churns in an unusual and unwelcome bout of jealousy.

The heat of Godric’s gaze bores into my side. I straighten up and turn toward the main space before he can call me out for ogling Archer.

“Nice sofa,” I say awkwardly, trying to alleviate the tense energy swirling through the room.

“Thanks,” Archer says. “It’s a customizable Yvonné. It’s made from sustainable materials and is entirely modular.”

I blink at him.

“It’s a sofa,” Godric and I say at the same time, in the same tone.

This causes Godric’s stoic demeanor to crack. He starts to laugh but quickly smothers it with a fake cough. “I’ll be out back with the mutt.”

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