Page 22 of Stroke of Shadows

He didn’t give a flying fuck about Wyatt Beauchamp, Angel Beauchamp, or even the Church of the Light. All he cared about were the Daemons in which they were somehow mixed with. It was the sole reason he was there. The sole reason for his bloody existence, technically.

Gideon and his gaggle of horned dickheads were already a huge problem. Not to mention his own fucking soldiers, the Undead. Appropriately named, considering they were nothing but empty puppets that slowly withered away beneath Gideon’s power. When one died, he’d simply find another poor soul and create a new minion and the circle repeats.

Reports of missing people had risen fifty percent or so in the last six months. Not that the Council of Six were acknowledging the fact. Although it was bound to happen sooner rather than later. Sythe was sure the Order were doing everything in their power to hide the problem, the continued existence of the horned fuckers an embarrassment to the Archdruid.

Daemons were the druid’s dirty little secret, at least amongst the general populace. The Council knew and expected Archdruid Edwards to deal with it. Edwards expected the Guardians to deal with it, which they were. Technically. Just not under the Order’s authority.

Which brought him back to the Beauchamp’s. Angel had money, more than most people would ever see in their lifetime. If he was funding Gideon, the results could be catastrophic.

So it was up to Sythe and his brothers to destroy every single one of the horned bastards that threatened the balance.

Where the fuck was Wyatt? he thought, crossing his arms while the pretenders mingled with their gold painted glasses of champagne.

Sythe didn’t expect to be left so long. But then again, he never expected to have to wait in a room full of pompous arseholes either. Keeping his expression neutral in case he was being watched, Sythe scanned the crowd.

His beast stilled, an almost heavy pressure in the centre of his skull.

What in the Fates?

A woman in a flowing black dress stared at him, the swell of her breasts crushed beneath thin cords that wrapped around her chest like vipers. The fabric hugged the indent of her waist, flaring out at her perfect hips. He felt pinned, especially when he met the beautiful eyes of his mysterious girl.

She didn’t seem happy to see him, but Sythe couldn’t bring himself to care as she walked over like a carefully suppressed storm. Weeks she’d invaded his thoughts. Weeks of remembering the way he’d coaxed her lips to accept his tongue, and how she’d soaked his thighs when he touched her just right.

Weeks of accepting he’d never see her again.

His beast rumbled, pressing at the edge of his mind. Wanting him to finish what they’d started.

No, Sythe cursed, only for his beast to snarl in return.

“What are you doing here?” she asked quietly, barely sparing him a glance before looking over her shoulder.

“Can’t get enough of me, can you, darling?” he teased, unable to stop himself. He grabbed the glass she was ready to break with her grip, drinking down the remainder of the wine.

He allowed himself to smile despite the growing frustration at her presence. She shouldn’t be there. She couldn’t be there.

From the way she tightened her fist, she seemed to think the same of him.

“You need to leave. Right now.” Her hand reached out to wrap around his right wrist, the ache along his skin instantaneous. “Please, you need to—”

He spun her until she was the one pressed against the wall, wanting to groan at how her lips parted at his rough touch. He didn’t pin her like he craved, instead curving his larger frame over hers until she couldn’t look anywhere but him.

“Careful, darling,” he warned. “I’m here for a job, not to play with a pretty little thing who left me so fucking hard I ached for days.”

His cock twitched at the memory, clearly not over it.

What the fuck was wrong with him? He was there for a job, nothing more and nothing less. So why did he find himself wanting to push her? To see whether she’d submit to him so easily, just like the night at the club.

She tensed, his beast amused at the fire she tried to conceal beneath cool superiority.

“Get out of my way.” Her words held a bite, her dark brows pressing together in irritation.

“Or what?” he whispered against her skin, tension wrapping itself around his chest like a vise. He knew his face didn’t show anything other than militant boredom, and definitely not how much he wanted to hear her moan his name. Again.

Fuck.

She was going to mess everything up, and yet he didn’t stop himself from brushing the white wisps of hair that framed her beautiful face.

She flinched, pulling away. “Don’t—”