Page 48 of Stroke of Shadows

“Why would I know where it is?” Her voice carried in the wind, and with it notes of panic. “You wouldn’t sell it. Angel bought another—”

“You’re just like your fucking uncle.”

Harper was pressed against the brick wall, the surrounding area empty of witnesses as everyone sought haven from the weather. A man in a suit lurked closer, his fists clenched by his sides.

“Dirty fucking crooks that…”

Sythe zeroed in on her lips, and the blood that dripped from the corner.

Fire burned through Sythe’s veins, his beast propelling him forward with a strength he embraced. Hooking his fingers over the suit’s shoulder, he hauled him back hard enough he stumbled.

There was no hesitation. No need to tease or play. Rage consumed his thoughts, a violent wave that channelled straight into his fist. Bone and flesh gave away with a single punch, dropping the man to the ground. He wanted to keep going, to pummel him until he was nothing but a bloody pulp that would be simply washed away with the rain. Instead, he hauled the whimpering mess up by his throat.

“Apologise.” Sythe’s voice was black, promising death.

The suit let out a string of incoherent words, and Sythe only tightened his grip.

“I’m sorry,” he growled. “I didn’t quite hear you.”

The suit shot a petrified look towards Harper.

“Let’s try this again, shall we?” Sythe released his throat, only to pin his arms behind his back at a painful angle. “Apologise to Miss Beauchamp.”

“Mr Black.” A feminine whisper. “Please.” She was breathing heavily, her hair a wild mess, soaking wet and beginning to curl. “Mr Beckett was just leaving,” she managed to say, her voice trembling.

Her blood scented the air, and it took every piece of willpower he owned not to kill the man right in front of her.

Mr Beckett let out a cry when Sythe twisted his grip. “I’m sorry!” he shouted, followed by a whimper. “I’m sorry! Make him stop!”

Sythe kicked at the back of Beckett’s knees, forcing him to the sodden pavement. “Beg.”

“What? You want me to—” Another kick, followed by a pained cry. “Please, please—”

“Sythe.” She said his name, her voice searing through the blind rage. “Let him go.”

He paused, taking pleasure from forcing more distressed shrieks. Maybe he should break an arm, or even a—

“Sythe?”

Sythe’s head jerked to the side, meeting Harper’s terrified expression. She wasn’t scared of Beckett right then, but of him.

Sythe swallowed the bile, his jaw clenched as he released his hold and waited for Beckett to climb to his feet.

“You’re fucking crazy,” he hissed, his right eye already closed and the socket likely broken. “You’ll be hearing from my—”

“Try it, and you’ll find out what will happen if you really piss me off,” Sythe threatened, his voice dropping into a growl only Beckett could hear. “We both know you only approached because she was alone, which makes you a pathetic coward. Come near her again, and I’ll make sure not even your teeth can be used to identify your remains. Now fuck off.”

Beckett spluttered, limping to the side before he managed to hobble away.

Sythe took a second to compose himself, cooling the anger that still burned molten. The rain hadn’t let up, pelting him harshly as he brushed his hair from his eyes. Harper had a little cover from the museum, but she was just as soaked through.

“You’re just like Wyatt,” she whispered, her body shaking through the adrenaline.

Sythe wanted to laugh, but his beast was still too present. Too manic. “Did he hurt you?”

“No, I… I fell.” Her blood was bright against her pale complexion, smearing as her fingertips touched it.

Sythe’s body ached with how rigid he held it. She was telling the truth, and that was the only reason why he didn’t chase after the prick and end his pathetic excuse of a life.

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