Page 56 of Stroke of Shadows

“It would look better with splattered paint over it,” Sythe muttered, and Harper swallowed her laughter as Angel approached.

“Come take your seat.” Angel held out his arm, and she took it as she had hundreds of times before.

“Sir.” Sythe nodded, positioning himself by the painting they were just discussing. Ivan doesn’t look at her as he took his place on the other side, and for that she was thankful. It meant only one set of eyes watched her all night.

“Stop fidgeting,” Angel snapped. “They’ll think we’re making an offer.”

Harper immediately gripped her knees tightly, forcing her attention on the art being auctioned. The fakes were displayed in the museums, and the originals were kept by those rich enough to afford it. Mona Piaze’s self-portrait went to a banker named Richard Leon for eighty thousand. Another of Mona’s pieces went to a woman dressed all in black, including a veil, for fifteen thousand.

Harper dropped her gaze to the floor when the screaming began. The man on stage quickly gagged before someone bid over thirty thousand for him. A pop star, one who’d recently played the stadium.

Luckily, Angel didn’t buy any of the living options, taking home a single piece of art that he’d likely add to the gallery and put on display before retiring it to his private collection.

“I’ll go organise the transfer,” Harper said as Angel began speaking to another one of the attendees. She didn’t wait for his confirmation, needing to step away from everyone. Her hand shook as she found one of the side exits, the fresh air cooling.

Years she’d attended, but even after all that time, she still wasn’t numb to the screams. They haunted her, every last one of them. Harper had never asked what happened to those that were sold, and only once had Angel bid on someone. It had been a woman, and after a single night of hearing her screams rattling the walls of Angel’s bedroom, she’d never been mentioned again. A single night and she’d been lost. Forgotten.

“That was some auction,” a familiar deep voice grunted from behind her.

Harper jumped, finding Sythe directly behind her. “You scared me.”

Sythe slanted his head, watching her with an empty expression. “I’m your security for the night. Where you go, I go.”

“Oh, of course.” The noise of SoHo surrounded them, a wave of chaotic energy that only heightened her need for space. For silence.

“You didn’t look.”

She blinked at him, feeling herself breaking apart. “Excuse me?”

“You didn’t look at the stage when they were brought out.” He stepped closer, and she was forced to tip her head back. “You stared at the floor. Why?”

“Not everyone takes pleasure in others’ misfortune.” Panic caused a crack in her shields, and it took everything not to burst into tears. To show anything but cool indifference. “We should get back inside,” she added quickly when he simply just watched her.

He saw more than she was willing to show. There was something about him that made her open up, made her break. But she couldn’t be seen as weak. Not when she was supposed to be a Beauchamp.

Sythe nodded, just a single dip of his head. “Of course, your uncle’s waiting for you.”

Chapter 20

Sythe

Sythe pulled the car to a stop, the shipping terminal empty so late at night.

“Your mood’s starting to piss me off.” Wyatt clicked away on his phone, lounging back in his seat with his legs stretched as far as they could in his car. “You’re never this quiet. What’s up?”

“Maybe it’s because you treat this beautiful machine like a piece of scrap.” Sythe leaned forward to stroke against the dashboard. “It’s okay baby, I’ll treat you soooo much better. I’ll make sure to rub you so gently you’ll rumble beneath that sleek hood of yours.”

“Your fixation with my cars is weird.” Wyatt snorted. “You need to get laid. That’s probably why your mood’s been shit these past few days.”

Sythe laughed, the sound forced. “When do I have the time to get laid when you have me driving you around at one in the fucking morning?”

“Shut up. You get paid, and you get to hang around with me all the time. You’re living your best life.”

“Who said I wanted to hang around you all the time?” Sythe didn’t dodge the fist as Wyatt punched him in his upper arm.

“Arsehole.”

“Okay, I admit you have the best toys.” Sythe stroked the steering wheel. “And the best coke.” He swore he’d consumed more drugs in the last few months than he had in his entire lifetime. He was lucky his body broke the substance down without leaving any lasting effects.

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