Page 55 of Stroke of Shadows

“You act like no one sees you. But I do.”

Her heart felt like it’s trying to break free of her ribs. “You see nothing but what I want you to see.” She finally turned, finding his smile mocking. “You think you know me because of one lapse of judgement, but you don’t.”

Mischief glittered in his darkened gaze, and she was suddenly hot all over.

“Thank you again for helping me the other night,” she added, the air crackling with awareness between them. “But I think we should return to silence.”

“You’re dismissing me again,” he growled, just a low vibration that she felt between her legs.

Holy Light.

What was wrong with her? She was at one of the least sexy places she could think of, and yet she had to press her legs together to ease the pressure building. It had been a kiss. Yes, a world-shattering kiss. But still a kiss, nonetheless. She should not be having such carnal reactions to a man that teased her so easily.

“So, what’s the deal with this place?” Sythe asked casually, changing the subject.

“It’s an auction house,” she replied slowly.

“No shit.” Sythe pursed his lips, looking at her from the corner of his eye. “You sure you’re not being auctioned?”

Harper frowned, about to ask him to explain when he gestured towards Angel. Harper followed his line of sight, finding her uncle chatting to a few men that were all staring at her.

“Of course not.”

“You don’t sound convinced.” He was no longer teasing, his body tense beside her. “What do they auction?”

Harper swallowed, watching how Angel animatedly spoke to the men, who continued to stare. “Collectables.”

“Collectables,” Sythe echoed. “What sort of collectables?”

“You work for my uncle, and this auction house has a hidden entrance reserved for only a few. I’m sure you can use your imagination.”

Things more commonly found on the black market, and maybe even at the troll market. Including people.

“There are no limits when you have money,” she added quietly. “No morals.”

“World of the rich and famous, huh?” Sythe grunted, turning slightly towards the great painting directly behind them. “Tell me about this.”

Harper bristled at the demand, even if it wasn’t intended so. “It’s a painting.”

Sythe looked at her from the corner of his eye, his amusement clear.

“It’s a self-portrait,” she continued, giving her full attention to the piece. “The artist uses more toned down hues to highlight her continued disappointment with her self-image.”

She wanted to reach out and touch the paintbrush strokes, feeling a connection to the painting.

“You see how thick the paint is around her nose?” Harper dared a look to her right, finding Sythe looking at her rather than the painting. “You can see she wasn’t happy with the way she’d painted that section, which is why the colour’s the deepest tone. Depression and anxiety are usually continuing topics within this artist’s work. It’s a stunning way to use expression.”

“Hmmm.” Sythe’s attention warmed her skin. “I’m a Pollock fan myself.”

“That’s a different expression entirely, less precise.” Strange delight bubbled at that information.

“Art shouldn’t be defined by neat lines. Only a genius can think outside the box.”

“Is that so? If you believe that artists are defined by neat lines, then you’re not understanding the piece.”

“What’s to understand?” Sythe teased. “This painting is of a woman with blue lines across her face.”

“There’s a reason for every mark, and every stroke, Mr Black.”

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