Page 59 of Stroke of Shadows
Wyatt’s eyes blazed, and for the briefest second Sythe wasn’t sure whether Wyatt would simply shoot him too and run. His finger gripped the trigger, his arm held steady.
“Wyatt,” Sythe snarled, holding his hands up slightly. “Don’t be a fucking idiot.” Another moment passed, and Wyatt finally lifted the barrel before gesturing with his chin.
“Let’s go.”
A flash of relief, followed with anger. Sythe knew Wyatt was reckless, but he didn’t expect that.
“I can’t fucking see for shit,” Wyatt whispered, his arms held out slightly to stop from running into anything. They’d been moving for a few minutes, trying to navigate the terminal with next to no light.
Sythe could see in the dark, but even he was struggling with it being almost pitch black. After a few minutes of stumbling around, they found themselves on the outskirts of the terminal, the containers leaving a larger space in between, which allowed more of the moonlight to penetrate.
Wyatt stopped, his head swinging from one side to the other. “It’s just over—”
“Get on the ground, now!”
Wyatt and Sythe turned as one, hands held up as another officer stepped into view. A shifter. Wolf would be Sythe’s guess from the shape of the claws that gripped the pistol.
“I didn’t realise you were so popular,” Sythe whispered to his side.
Wyatt pursed his lips, his expression livid.
The officer stepped closer, teeth bared and fangs pointed in a partial shift. “I said get on the ground!”
Sythe slowly put his own gun in the back of his jeans, wanting his hands free. He knew he wasn’t going to be able to get them both out of there while acting human.
The officer pointed towards him. “Don’t move!”
“You’re going to get out of our way,” Sythe said calmly, raising his hands once more. “You don’t want—”
Wyatt tensed as if to shoot, the officer pressing his own trigger a fraction of a second faster. Sythe punched the back of Wyatt’s head, letting him drop limp to the floor just as the bullet pierced through Sythe’s stomach, the pain white hot.
“Fuck!” Gritting his teeth, he allowed his eyes to change, pulling strength from his beast.
“What the fuck are you?” The officer went to lift his gun again, but Sythe was already on him. The second shot missed, barely, the skin of his cheek stinging with how close he came to losing his face.
“If you were jealous of my looks, you could’ve just said,” Sythe baited, ignoring the growing ache in his stomach. The bullet was still lodged there, and until he removed it, he wouldn’t heal.
Claws caught along Sythe’s chest, and it took everything for him to keep his beast contained.
“Last warning.” Sythe clenched his fists. “I don’t want to kill you.”
The shifter spat at his feet, his arms spread with fur piercing through his flesh. “Get on the fucking—”
A hole appeared between his eyes.
What. The. Actual. Fuck.
Sythe turned to find Wyatt on the ground with the officer’s gun in hand. Without giving the officer another thought, he dropped to help Wyatt to his feet, his blood fragrant. With a groan, Wyatt touched the back of his head, his fingertips coming away red.
“You should have looked where you were going.” Helping with Wyatt’s weight beneath his arm, he guided them out of the terminal, finding a place to hide before sending a text for backup. It took less than ten minutes for a car to pull up, and by then, Wyatt had already passed out again.
“What happened?” Ivan, Angel’s personal guard, stepped out of the car.
“Just get us the fuck out of here.” Shoving Wyatt into the back of the car, Sythe slipped in beside him, the wound on his stomach only just stopped bleeding. He may have heightened healing powers, but not while the fucking metal was snuggling happily with his organs.
“Angel’s not going to be happy about this,” Ivan said, glaring at him through the rearview mirror.
“Wyatt’s hit his head.”