Page 12 of Stroke of Shadows

Over ten years, she’d waited.

Chapter 4

Sythe

Eight fucking weeks Sythe had had to sit and listen to the same sixteen men whine about their childhoods. Blaming everything from absent fathers, being told they weren’t good enough, to finding the colour yellow too offensive for the reason they were aggressive arseholes.

Everyone was there as part of their mandatory rehabilitation, with at least half out on parole. The rest had chosen to cut their custodial sentence if they attended the anger management course. Sythe would’ve been charged with ABH and hoped the judge sent him to the same class. Unless, of course, you had a computer nerd as a brother. Which he did, even if Titus barely left his room. One fake conviction later, Sythe was sitting in a circle telling everyone his feelings.

“It was a Persian called Fluffy…”

Sythe drowned out Dwayne’s voice as he droned on, yet again, about how his mother never let him have a pet growing up. As if that was reason enough for why he punched a random guy in a bar.

“Fucking loser,” he muttered beneath his breath, causing Wyatt to snigger beside him.

Everything Sythe did was meticulously thought out, from every word that left his lips, to the way he presented himself. A character built specifically for his target. It had taken eight weeks of bullshit to learn what he could about Wyatt Beauchamp. An impulsive man child who lived for attention, whether it was positive or negative. He pushed boundaries and wanted someone to validate and encourage his actions. Sythe happily slipped into that position.

Sythe turned his head, knowing it would get him scolded for disrespecting the speaker. “You get the stuff to celebrate the end of this shit show?”

“Of course I fucking did,” Wyatt whispered back, smirking when the counsellor glared in their direction.

“It better be bloody good, rich boy,” Sythe said, winking at the counsellor when she didn’t look away. She blushed, more anger than anything else, but she finally returned her attention to Dwayne and his harrowing tale of deprived pet ownership. “It’s the only reason I even talk to you.”

Wyatt fidgeted with his silver lighter, flipping the lid open, and then closed. “Fuck off, we both know the only reason you talk to me is because I’m the only other fucking human in this place.”

And there it was, the atmosphere in the room thickening with violence as everyone turned to look at them. Only half the group was actually Breed, but Wyatt didn’t give a shit who he offended.

Textbook privileged kid with attention issues.

“That’s enough,” the counsellor said, standing up from her seat opposite. “Mr Black, if you carry on, you’ll fail the course and you’ll have to go back before the judge.”

Wyatt chuckled, knowing she’d never call him out in front of everyone.

Sythe shook his head, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees. “Apologies, beautiful,” he said with zero sincerity, which caused the counsellor to purse her lips.

“Mr Black,” she said, over enunciating the ‘ck’ in his fake name. “Why don’t you share with us what you’ve learnt in the last eight weeks?”

“What I’ve learnt?” Sythe cracked his knuckles, much to Wyatt’s amusement. “I’ve learnt not to be fucking caught.”

Beer tasted like piss. It didn’t matter that the bottle he was drinking was brewed by monks in the mountains of Scotland and had a pretentious label. It tasted like piss. But that didn’t matter, because it was what Wyatt was drinking.

“I told you this place was worth it,” Wyatt chuckled, the pool beside them full of young, half-naked people. “What better way to celebrate our freedom than to crash a house party?”

Sythe took another sip of his beer. “Crash? I thought you said you knew the host?”

“Of course I know him,” Wyatt muttered, pulling out a plastic bag from his jacket pocket. “I know everyone there is to know. I needed to pay Sailor a little visit, and he just happened to be throwing a party.”

“A visit?” Sythe asked, raising a brow. “Is that why I’m here? You need my pretty face as backup?”

“Pretty?” Wyatt smirked, dipping his finger into the powder to rub along his gums. “Trust me, I don’t need anyone. I can do whatever I want because no one has the fucking guts to stop me.”

Sythe cocked his head. “So we’ve crashed a party, and now we’re going to sit and wait for the guy to come to us? Fuck man, that’s some power play.”

Wyatt’s grin widened. “See, you just get me,” he said, excitement brightening his voice.

Of course I do, Sythe thought, matching his enthusiasm. “Can’t believe I’ve only known you for eight weeks. Feels like fucking years.” Eight weeks of sitting in those fucking meetings. Eight weeks of turning up at the same bars or clubs and accidentally running into one another. Eight weeks of coincidences.

“You make it sound like a bad thing,” Wyatt continued with a chuckle, holding out a spoon to Sythe. “Thank the Light you were at that fucking course. When you punched that shifter in the face without hesitation, I just knew we’d be friends.”

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