Page 50 of Stroke of Shadows

He’d give her another hour, and then he’d… He wasn’t sure.

“Harper, I need you to wake up.” He gently touched her cheek, feeling her stir beneath his caress. “Harper?”

No response, her pulse steady in sleep. Sythe stretched his chi, brushing his aura against hers. There was no resulting tingle like expected from another magic bearer, or even an animalistic presence when grazing a shifter. Everyone’s aura had a different taste, and Harper’s tasted of nothing. Human.

Which made no sense. Magic would be a valid reason why she polluted his thoughts. A spell, or even a curse, that she’d put on him when they’d first met. Something that would explain why when he closed his fucking eyes, she was the only person he dreamed about.

Where the fuck are you?

Sythe stared at the text from Wyatt for a few seconds before replying, expecting the message.

Waiting to pick her Highness up like you asked. Why?

That was hours ago.

And? I didn’t realise she had a curfew. She’s looking at some papers at the museum and there’s only a small timeframe she can study it. You want me to interrupt her?

Fuck. No, it’s fine. Just make sure she gets back.

Don’t worry, rich boy. I’m here to save the day.

Tossing his phone on the table, Sythe finally pulled himself away. Moving to the kitchen, he turned on the rusty faucet, the water clean but ice cold. Pulling up his sleeve, he held his right arm beneath the stream, allowing the water to ease the ache. The glyphs tattooed into his skin seemed to shimmer, glowing beneath the thorns and roses.

With a frown, he rubbed against his forearm, the black fine lines rippling. He’d never had them glow without a Daemonic presence before, and there was definitely nothing nearby that could be setting them off.

A groan, Harper turning in her sleep.

Grabbing a cloth, he held it beneath the water, soaking it through before he twisted the excess. Carefully moving back to Harper, he gently touched her cheek with the cloth, stroking over her forehead and brow. Her hair fascinated him as much as her eyes. The brunette was dark enough it was edging almost black, a contrast to the white of her fringe. The paler strands framed her face, bringing out the warm undertones in her fair skin. Up close, there were a few white hairs in her lashes, too.

Large eyes, angled cheekbones, full lips and a cute button nose.

She was one of the most beautiful women he’d ever seen.

He gently pressed the cloth down the slope of her throat, her temperature back to a reasonable range compared to the spiking temperature of before. He knew the second she was no longer asleep, her pulse giving her away as it thrummed rapidly beneath his touch. Harper stilled, and only then did he step back and give her the space to sit up. There was a second of confusion, of her eyes sweeping the room before returning to him with an edge of panic.

“You’re okay,” he reassured her. “You’re safe.”

She frowned, creating delicate creases between her dark brows. “What… what happened?”

“You don’t remember?” He knew from getting his head knocked a few times that it took a second or two for your memory to catch up. His brothers rarely pulled their punches. “You were cornered outside the museum.”

“Oh.” The creases between her brows deepened before alarm widened her eyes. “Beckett! Is he—”

“Fine,” Sythe snapped, surprised at the stroke of jealousy at the bastard’s name. “Alive.”

Her shoulders softened, and he fought back the growl at her relief for someone who’d threatened her. The arsehole was lucky he hadn’t hunted him down once he’d made sure Harper was safe.

Sitting back against the wall, Sythe rested his arms on his knees. He made himself seem as small and safe as possible, which was harder than it looked when she still watched him with a slight wariness.

“So, do you collapse often?” he asked, keeping his tone light. “Or only when you want dashing men to catch you?”

Her laughter caught him by surprise, the delighted sound pulling something tight in his chest. “Trust me, I try not to make it a habit.”

“The collapsing, or the dashing men?”

Harper’s cheeks pinked, a small break in her composure that brought a curve to his lips. He shouldn’t be teasing her, yet he couldn’t stop.

She sat so neatly. Her back straight and shoulders perfectly angled. Her legs were even pressed together and hands resting gently on her thighs. Everything about her was forced. Proper. Fake.

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