Page 60 of Stroke of Shadows

“The doctor’s already been informed. He’ll meet us at the estate.”

With a nod, Sythe turned towards the racing streetlights. Tonight had been a complete clusterfuck, and if Wyatt realised it was Sythe who’d hit him, he may have sabotaged his own mission.

Fuck.

Letting out an unsteady breath, he closed his eyes. He couldn’t get the image of those women hanging there out of his mind. He knew they were likely saved, but there had been two more containers that had already been moved.

Fucking hell.

He was about to break one of his own rules.

He was going to contact his brothers.

Leave it with me. I’ll find them. K

Just seeing the message was enough to ease some of his anger. But not enough. It would never be enough. Not until he’d destroyed every fucking inch of the Beauchamp estate, and everyone in it.

Chapter 21

Sythe

“Iknew you shouldn’t have been given such a large responsibility.” Angel paced in his study, his anger at odds with his relaxed clothing. It was strange to see such a powerful man dressed in plaid pyjamas, a gold chain with a key swinging loosely around his neck.

Sythe leaned against the wall, purposely quiet. The fireplace burned, spreading out a warmth that barely touched the solid chunk of ice that had settled in his chest. Every breath was an ache, the bullet lodged deep.

“Fucking idiot, be more careful!” Wyatt winced at the doctor before sweeping his arm across the desk. He caught a small bottle of anaesthetic, the glass smashing against the floor.

The doctor stood back, startled.

Wyatt shot to his feet, his head covered in gauze and only partially bandaged. Seemed Sythe had hit him harder than he’d thought. Shame.

“This wasn’t my fault.” Wyatt pointed a finger towards his father.

“Of course it was.” Angel’s eyes pinned his son to the spot before moving to the doctor. “How is he?”

The doctor visibly swallowed, clearly uncomfortable as his attention flicked between the two Beauchamp men. “It seems your son has suffered a small laceration to the back of his head and a possible mild concussion. I would prefer if we could get to the hospital to run some—”

“No.” Wyatt pulled at the bandages before tossing it on the floor, leaving the small wound open to the air. “Look, I’m fine,” he growled. “No fucking tests.”

Angel nodded, seeming to ignore his son entirely. “I appreciate your assistance so early in the morning, Dr Hamilton. My guard will show you to the door.” He gestured to Ivan, who helped the doctor pick up his belongings before escorting him out of the study.

“Sit down, son.”

Wyatt vibrated with energy, his movements agitated. Nervous. “What about the fucking cops?”

Angel pursed his lips, staring at the chair until Wyatt took a seat. “I’ll take care of it.”

“But I was caught—”

“I said I’ll take fucking care of it.” Angel’s words were more of a growl. “Just like I take care of fucking everything.” He dragged a hand across his face, exhaustion carving harsh lines into his face. “Do you know how much we’ve just lost?”

A vein visibly pulsed in Wyatt’s forehead. “It wasn’t my fault.”

“Over a million, boy. How exactly are you going to replace that?” At Wyatt’s silence, Angel continued. “Were you high?”

A look of disdain. “Of course not! This wasn’t my fucking fault. I’ve told you that moving live goods isn’t sustainable anymore, not with the crackdown from the cops. Don’t fucking blame me for something I have no control over.”

Angel moved to stand beside his desk, reaching for a decanter of amber liquid. “You said you’d dealt with the rat.” He poured himself a drink into a crystal glass, lifting it to his lips, but not taking a sip. “You told me you’d dealt with it six months ago, but you made a mistake then, too.”

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