Page 33 of Stroke of Shadows

Pick me up, rich boy. You owe me a drink… and an ice pack.

Wyatt replied instantly with a video shot from a shitty mobile phone. One that showed Sythe landing the final punch to the shifter. He wasn’t surprised Wyatt had sent someone to follow him, even though he hadn’t noticed.

Fuck. He should’ve noticed.

What if he’d been seen stepping from the shadows?

That supposed to be a threat?

You know it’s nothing personal.

Sythe stared at the screen, suddenly exhausted. He wanted nothing more than to go home to his brothers and work on his cars. Instead, he typed out the next message, the pressure to fulfil his commitment a heavy weight.

Well, you fucking coming or what?

On my way. Don’t worry, I’ve got us invites to this big fucking party to celebrate your success.

Sythe tucked his phone away, content to wait in the rain.

Chapter 12

Harper

Harper was getting impatient.

Weeks, and she’d still not been able to find a single lead for the chalice. She’d poured through every book at her disposal, her uncle’s private collection one of the largest in Europe. She knew–she’d hunted down half the rare tomes herself.

She’d found mythologies of such a cup in texts from humans, celestrials, as well as Fae. Everything from a vessel for wine, auras and even Chaos magic.

Not to mention the mad scramblings of one author whose heritage she wasn’t even certain on.

Calicem Animarum. The Cup of Souls was going to be her hardest challenge yet.

Setting her latest book down on the table, Harper made her way towards the kitchen, already knowing there wouldn’t be anyone there. When she was growing up, the house was always full, the staff living in the east wing while the family lived in the west. There were nannies, chefs, housekeepers, gardeners, as well as drivers and other members of staff all living under the same roof, but all that changed after her father’s death.

Now she rarely saw the same face twice, her uncle distrusting anyone he hadn’t personally vetted inside the walls of the house. Over the years, many of the rooms were essentially abandoned, leaving her to rattle around the place. Which wasn’t necessarily a bad thing. Alone, she didn’t have to act a certain way. Be someone she wasn’t.

The late morning sun streamed down the hall, the kitchen door slightly ajar. The chefs had long gone, not allowed to linger after the night service until the following evening. The housekeepers weren’t due until after lunch, and only if they were escorted by the security team. Her uncle should have already left for the gallery, and she’d never once caught Wyatt raiding the kitchen before noon. That was if her idiot cousin wasn’t still recovering from sleeping with any airhead heiress that would take him, or experimenting with whatever was the next exciting drug.

She’d only seen him twice in person since the ceremony, and each time had been unpleasant. He was even more impatient than she was at finding the chalice. His texts had started as spiteful, and were slowly becoming more threatening.

The door squeaked as Harper pushed forward, the kitchen immaculately clean as she peered around the solid wood.

Her stomach dropped at the sight of the man sitting on the counter, his legs clad in black denim. “What… what are you doing here?”

Sythe looked up from his bowl of cereal, head cocked. “You really can’t get enough of me, can you, darling?”

“You’re in my house,” she hissed, panic tightening around her lungs. His chest was wrapped in the tightest black fabric, the sleeves pulled down enough to cover half his hands.

Sythe chewed lazily, watching her with a quiet amusement.

“Get out, Mr Black, or I’ll call security.”

Why’s he here?

“A lot of bite from someone who came on my fingers not that long ago.” Sythe smirked, setting the cereal to the side before slipping off the counter. “Tell me, darling—”

“It’s Miss Beauchamp.” She couldn’t control the full on flush across her face, tingling further when he stepped closer, and she was forced to look up. “Not darling.”

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