Page 65 of Stroke of Shadows

He released his clamp on her wrist, his eyes intense. “Which gate?”

“I don’t remember. It was dark.” Harper held her head high. “Don’t worry, I won’t tell my uncle about this misdemeanour. Have a good night, Mr Boston.” Keeping her back straight, she walked into the house like she hadn’t just been caught doing something she wasn’t supposed to. She hoped Mr Boston wouldn’t share the knowledge of seeing her, but if he did, she would use the same excuse she’d given him.

It was just an innocent walk. She hadn’t snuck out of the estate to meet with a thief. What a ludicrous idea.

The house was silent so early in the morning, nothing but the tick tick ticking of the grandfather clock that sat at the top of the stairs. She was thankful there weren’t any security walking around inside the house like they did with the surrounding grounds. It made slipping back into her room much easier without being stopped several times, like she had as a child. Up until her father died, she couldn’t even leave her room without being spotted. Without being escorted from one room to another, even inside the place that was supposed to be her home.

It was supposed to be safe.

But then again, she’d never really been safe.

She was just the toy, to be used and disposed of until they wanted to play again.

The door closed behind her, the quiet click one of her favourite sounds. It allowed her to take a breath. To calm her racing pulse.

Dropping the coat from her shoulders, she hooked it over a chair before moving to the bed. Harper paused, an intense cold forming in the centre of her chest at the sight of her sheets. They’d been moved. She was sure of it.

Which meant someone had been in her room. Or was still…

A quiet curse, coming from the bathroom.

Please gods, not again, she prayed, her hand shaking as she pressed open the bathroom’s door. Please. Please.

A half-naked man stood hunched over her sink, and Harper barely caught her panicked cry before she realised who it was.

How did Sythe get into her room?

Sweeping her gaze across his strong back, she couldn’t help but stare. He was covered in roses, the deep red of the petals contrasting the sharp thorns that seemed to swirl and curve across every muscle.

It took her a second to realise not only was she stood frozen, but he was watching her reaction through the reflection of the mirror.

Harper cleared her throat, a flush burning up her neck at being caught gaping. “If Wyatt sent you to threaten me, you can get out. I’m already working on the chalice. It takes as long as it takes, and you coming into my bedroom so late at night is entirely—”

“Inappropriate?” Sythe’s smile was playful, and she hated how her lower belly warmed at his voice. “Why hello to you too, darling.”

“Get out.”

Instead of replying, Sythe dropped his head to his chest and returned his attention to the sink. With a distinctive metal clink, he stepped back, only for Harper to realise the gold and white marble was smeared with blood. As was his stomach.

“It looks worse than it is,” he said, not a single sign of pain across his face. “Just hurt like a fucker while it was in there.”

Harper stepped closer, only to see a single bullet settled by the drain. “Oh my Gods, you were shot? Why are you here and not at a hospital?”

“Why would I go to a hospital when I can get you as my nurse?” he teased, resting back against the side with his arms crossed. It made his muscles bunch, her gaze dropping to his abs before she immediately forced her eyes back up. Only to be met with a cocky expression and that damn dimple.

A flutter in her belly, one she pointedly ignored.

Stepping around him, she reached for the cupboard beneath the sink, opening it to grab one of the rolls of gauze. “What happened?”

She opened the fresh pack, looking back over her shoulder to find Sythe staring inside the cupboard. She knew what he saw, enough gauze and bandages to last a small infirmary. Not to mention the many bottles of strong antibiotics, saline solution, and hydrogen peroxide. It was part of the ceremony after she’d become the vessel for the Church, to clean and dress the wounds on her back as best as she could without assistance.

“Come on.” When he didn’t move, she nudged him gently. “Mr Black?” She knew his surname would get a reaction, his nostrils flaring as he fixed her with a stare.

“Why do you have so many medical supplies?”

“Why are you bleeding all over my bathroom?” she countered. “Come on, let me get you cleaned up.” She expected him to protest, but he simply watched her as she reached for a clean hand towel and soaked it beneath the tap. He didn’t make a single sound as she pressed the cold, damp fabric to his stomach.

She cleaned him methodically, making sure not to press too much pressure on the bullet hole. There were tattoos there too, and up close the roses and thorns that dominated his skin were nothing compared to the intricate symbols and lines hidden beneath.

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