Page 14 of Stroke of Shadows
Fuck. Sythe dipped his finger in the bag of cocaine as a distraction, needing to pull back from the conversation a little. “Calm down, rich boy. I like to be informed before I beat the shit out of someone.” He rubbed the powder on his gums, the numbing sensation unpleasant.
“Let’s just say my surname means something in my circles. There’s certain… expectations.”
“Expectations for Sailor, or for you?”
Wyatt’s smile was less enthusiastic, almost sober. “Come on, I’m bored of waiting. Let’s find shithead and then go to a real party.”
Before Sythe could respond, Wyatt had already jumped to his feet, moving towards the house with purpose. The crowd parted like water, not daring to get in his way as he entered the kitchen. Clearly, they knew who he was.
Wyatt paused at the threshold for the barest second before he hooked his arm around a guy’s neck. “Why hello, Sail. You not think to come greet your guests?”
Splotches of red appeared on what must be Sailor’s cheeks, bringing out the tones in his strawberry hair. His pale green eyes flicked between Sythe and the rest of the audience watching. “Wyatt… I… I was going to come see you but—”
“But what?” Wyatt didn’t loosen his hold, the inside of his elbow tight to Sailor’s throat. “I was feeling pretty friendly today, but that was before you made me wait.” He released his grip, only to knot his fingers in the back of Sailor’s hair. Shoving forward, he forced Sailor’s face to crash into the corner of the kitchen cabinet.
The crack reverberated, as did the screams that quickly followed. Sythe watched with his arms crossed, making sure no one intervened as Sailor sagged to the floor, holding his bleeding face.
“What the fuck!” he cried, the words slightly muffled.
Wyatt knelt, his voice barely above a whisper. “Pay up what you owe before Friday,” he threatened. “That’s your only warning.”
Sailor whimpered on the floor, but managed a nod.
“Right.” Wyatt straightened to his full height, placing a cigarette between his lips. “Ready to go?”
He fought against his lighter, a solid silver piece with small diamonds spelling out his initials. He flicked it open, and when there was no flame, he snapped it closed.
“Fucking thing,” he muttered, trying to create a spark with no luck. “Anyone got a light?”
Not one person answered, all shrinking back when Wyatt turned to face them.
“I think you made a few people piss themselves, rich boy,” Sythe chuckled. “Let’s go before I get blood on my shoes.” He leaned down to pat Sailor gently on the shoulder. “Good thing you’re rich, mate. Because you’re no longer pretty.”
Wyatt groaned when the lighter finally sparked, allowing him to take his first puff of nicotine. “May the Light burn you, arsehole.”
No one stopped them as they walked through the house, not that Sythe expected any problems. Wyatt didn’t seem to have many friends, likely because people were scared of his name. Or maybe it was his actions.
It was hours later before Sythe managed to get back to his newly rented flat, the place unpleasant, but expected with his new background. It had a lockable door, a working kitchen, and a bathroom. That was all he needed, the open plan generous in the fact it could fit a comfortable enough sofa and table.
He’d slept in worse.
With a groan, he yanked his t-shirt free from his body, the cool air bliss against the ache in his right arm. No one, not even his brothers, truly understood the discomfort he suffered at even the slightest touch against his skin. It was stupid, a phantom pain that only existed in his head. It was why he usually wore clothes without sleeves, but that wasn’t an option when he needed to cover his glyphs.
A vibration, his phone lighting up on the table.
Tonight was fucking great. I knew you were just like me.
I’ve got a booth at a specialised club booked Sat. You in?
Sythe stared at the words, anticipation electric in his blood.
Give me the details, and I’m there.
Eight fucking weeks, but it looked like he was finally making progress.
Chapter 5
Sythe