Page 21 of Stroke of Shadows

The majority of her back was exposed, displaying the large brand and scars that were nothing but a statement.

Ugh, for the love of Light, she thought. She hated being on display, a play piece in a game she didn’t know how to play.

Ignoring the attention on her bare skin, Harper entered to be met with Angel’s frosty glare. She’d removed the comb from the top of her head, instead sliding it just above her quickly styled ponytail. Her scar was still noticeable, but she knew he wouldn’t appreciate even a tiny amount of hair from obscuring it.

He wanted her to work the room, to quietly listen to the conversations and charm potential business associates. But she had no intention of talking to anyone at the party unless forced.

No, she planned to stand in the corner and watch. It was what she was taught to do, technically. Her having to be closer to his acquaintances came later, once he’d realised her face was just something else he could use to get what he wanted.

Accepting a drink from a passing server, Harper moved to stand slightly behind the ice sculpture. The library had been transformed into yet another ostentatiously expensive social gathering, one with draped fabrics and gold edged glasses. It wasn’t her uncle’s usual style, but the show of wealth was something expected in a room full of new money. Old money were more reserved. Subtle in the ways they showed off their fortune.

They didn’t usually have fast cars or wear flashy branded designers. They had drivers and wore £10,000 black t-shirts that looked as if they’d been bought from the local supermarket.

In the hundred or so attending, Harper knew only a small handful were from old money. Not that it mattered to her uncle. All he cared about was power and influence, something that he believed was slipping between his fingers. The amount of money in someone’s bank account didn’t matter anymore, and that bothered him.

So because of his paranoia, she had to watch the rich elite pretend to tolerate one another once per year. To listen to them drone on about uninteresting anecdotes that received fake, forced laughs.

At least the wine was delicious.

Harper walked to the other side of the ice sculpture, scanning the crowd. She could name everyone in the room, as well as their net worth. Information she’d picked up over the years. It helped with research, as many of those that attended were also collectors of expensive, unique things. Pointless in the grand scheme of things, but it gave her something to do while she waited.

Thirty more minutes—that was how much longer she had to pretend. Then she could slip away unnoticed.

Taking another sip of her wine, Harper began to walk around the outer edge of the crowd, only to pause when she spotted someone she didn’t recognise.

She knew everyone invited. That was the point of her attending. So who was…

The man turned, and Harper froze on the spot. His eyes widened in recognition, but his cool expression didn’t flicker.

Holy Light. What was he doing here?

Harper found herself moving across the room, the wine glass gripped tightly between her fingers. The Gods must hate her, because no way was the only man she’d ever been attracted to standing there in a black, ridiculously tight t-shirt and jeans with rips at the knees. How had she not noticed him in the first place? He stuck out like a sore thumb amongst the tuxedos and evening gowns.

“What are you doing here?” she asked quietly, looking over her shoulder to make sure her uncle was elsewhere.

“Can’t get enough of me, can you, darling?” he said, grabbing the glass from her hand and drinking the rest of her wine.

“You need to leave. Right now,” she bit out, clenching her fists even as heat curled through her stomach. Panic made her words sharp, her hand reaching out without thought to wrap around his wrist. “Please, you need to—”

He spun them until she was the one pressed against the wall, his larger body blocking her from sight. “Careful, darling,” he warned, dropping his head closer to her height. “I’m here for a job, not to play with a pretty little thing who left me so fucking hard I ached for days.”

Harper pressed herself harder against the wall at her back. She wanted to shove against his chest, but she couldn’t. Not with an audience. It would go against the proper etiquette when speaking to a guest.

He made her feel out of control, the risk of exposure growing with every passing second. “Get out of my way.” She’d worked too hard to get where she was for him to mess it up.

“Or what?” he whispered against her skin, his expression empty of the desire she felt pulsing the air between them.

SYTHE

What a load of pretentious fucks.

When Wyatt had asked him over, Sythe didn’t think it would be in the centre of a giant bloody party. Not that he was complaining. People watching was one of his favourite hobbies.

But he looked out of place in his casual clothes, a stark contrast to the expensive gowns worn by those actually invited. He was thrown some cautious glares, but no one dared approach him.

So he waited, studying every face in the room. There were a few security on the edges, their postures stiff and threatening. Professional enough, so Sythe mirrored their stance. His first task had been to get into the estate, and after a weird turn of events, there he was. Now, he just had to figure out how to stay there.

The meeting with Angel Beauchamp had to go perfectly, which meant accepting anything and everything asked of him. Angel needed a bodyguard? Sythe was the man for the job. They needed a new cleaner? He’d drop to his knees and scrub the floor without complaint. Sythe didn’t care what it was, as long as in the end he found the information he came for.

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