Stolen Sign

Chapter 7

~ Sylas ~

When Jaxon had taken his shirt off, I couldn't help but stare. And not because he's hot.

He is—aesthetically speaking. He's broad-shouldered and well-muscled, and his skin is a smooth, dark olive shade. He keeps his dense brown curls shaved close around the sides and back of his head and a bit longer on top. From the curve of his back, to the breadth of his chest, to the well-defined ridges of his abs, he's a fine specimen of the male form, indeed.

But like I said, that's not what made me stare.

What made me stare was the latticework of scars marring his body—stretching across his back and diagonal over half his abdomen and chest. The worst of them have been covered with tattoos, which is the other thing that made me stare.

An enormous griffin is inked across his entire back, its wings covering his right shoulder and part of his arm. I don't know much about tattoos, but it seems to be in an Asian style, with lots of vibrant colors and shading, surrounded by swirling shapes and complex designs, and it must have taken many painful hours to complete.

Somehow it fits him perfectly, reflecting something about him that I can just glimpse beneath the surface: something passionate and wild that longs to be expressed. It also makes me wonder about him—about what sort of man he really is—to have chosen to make something beautiful from the remnants of so much pain.

Because while I don't know what kind of injury would leave scars like that, I'd guess it's not the kind you just get up and walk away from.

I'm so lost in these thoughts, I hardly hear what he says to me before he leaves, and then he's gone, and I'm alone in his apartment.

It's clean, quiet, and uncluttered. There are no electronics besides a slim laptop and some wireless speakers, and almost every surface is bare.

With Jaxon gone, the worst of my fears subsided, and my anti-anxiety meds taking effect, I'm able to take stock of things for the first time since opening my door and thinking my life was about to end:

Linus Spellwright is dead, the rest of the Spellwrights will blame me if they find out I took Griffin's Relic as my Sign, and Jaxon Spellwright—for some reason—is protecting me.

I make myself a quick promise that the next time I'm invited to a party, I'm not going—no matter how guilty Lyssa makes me feel.

For a few minutes, I just stand there, unsure what to do. Then I realize that I'm shivering. It's something that happens to me after a bad panic attack, and I guess the fear I experienced earlier is similar. It's like all the tension and anxious energy is leaving my body in physical waves. I feel cold, and a bit sick, and my shirt is almost completely damp with sweat.

Anxious sweat—especially several layers of it—does not smell great.

I decide to explore Jaxon's shower. He did tell me to make myself at home.

The bathroom is small, and as clean as the rest of the house. I have to search for the toiletries and find them neatly stored in a cabinet beneath the sink: a plain bar of soap, and a 2-in-1 men's shampoo. There's also a shaving kit, but fortunately I have no need of that: like most men of my mother's line, I've never been able to grow facial hair.

The water is wonderfully hot on my chilled skin, thawing my rigid muscles as the heat sinks deep. Few things feel better than being warm and clean—especially after being dirty and cold.

I could stand beneath the shower's hot, powerful spray for an hour, but it's not my water bill. After ten luxurious minutes, I shut it off and step out.