Page 24

Chapter twenty-four

HAWK

Lance doesn’t wait for me to say anything. He’s already reaching for his phone, fingers moving fast as he types something out, his expression controlled, the way it always is when shit is about to hit the fan. I keep my focus on the screen, skimming through the latest investor threads, searching for the root of this bullshit. Someone started it, and whoever they are, they know exactly where to hit us.

This isn’t just idle gossip. This was a deliberate, targeted attack. Lance curses under his breath, tossing his phone onto the desk. “Gray’s gonna fucking love this.”

The sarcasm is sharp, but there’s real frustration underneath it. Gray can handle bad press. He thrives in it, actually. But this? This is more than just a few headlines questioning his latest work or some petty jealousy from another artist. This is our entire operation, our reputation, our future—all getting dragged through the mud over something we didn’t even do.

I rub a hand over my jaw, trying to push past the initial wave of fury, trying to focus. “How bad is the damage?”

Lance pulls up our client list, scanning through the recent communications. His fingers tap against the desk, an erratic rhythm that tells me my brother’s more pissed than he’s letting on. “So far, two investors have officially pulled out. Three others are waiting for a response. They’re not cutting ties yet, but they want reassurances.” He exhales sharply. “And if they’re asking questions, you can bet more are coming.”

I click into another tab, checking our accounts, scanning transactions, double-checking every piece of documentation we have on our latest acquisitions. Every purchase is clean. Every deal accounted for. There’s no reason for anyone to believe we’re moving fakes. Unless someone wants them to.

Lance must be thinking the same thing because he straightens, a soft growl coming from him. “This isn’t random.”

“No,” I agree, a little more certain with all the details. We’ve been at this most of the morning. “It’s a setup.”

He nods, silent for a beat, then leans forward, forearms braced against the desk. “Who do we know that benefits from this?”

I grit my teeth, running through a mental list. Competitors, past deals gone sour, collectors we’ve had to cut ties with—there are plenty of people who would love to see us fall. But this feels personal.

At first, the rumors had been nothing more than background noise, just another wave of bullshit gossip drifting through the art world like it always does. The kind of talk that flares up and dies just as fast. But now, it’s different. Talk from that showing has exploded and as I scroll through some of the newer emails, I realize someone’s suing us. It’s time to get Puma involved, both of us heading out of the office to locate our Alpha.

We find him exactly where we expect, perched at the kitchen island with a magazine in his hands, flipping through the pages like he doesn’t have a single goddamn care in the world. At first glance, it’s a picture of indifference. Controlled. Unbothered. But it’s not just any magazine. It’s the latest issue, the one that ran a feature on us. The one that made my life a living hell.

Flashing cameras. Forced smiles. Hands constantly adjusting, positioning, molding us into something more palatable for the public. Every second of it had grated against my skin like sandpaper, an intrusion I swore I’d never go through again. I told Puma that next time, if there ever was a next time, I wasn’t doing it. No staged bullshit, no polished images, no empty performances.

He looks up, searching our expressions. “What’s going on?” Puma sits up a little straighter, closing the magazine, waiting for one of us to talk.

I slide my phone onto the counter, the screen still lit up with the email thread. Puma’s gaze drops to it, scanning, his fingers hovering over the screen. I watch it happen—the way his expression shifts, casual amusement draining away, the faintest crease forming between his brows. He exhales, setting the magazine aside like it suddenly weighs too much.

“Shit,” he mutters, rubbing a hand over his jaw.

My arms cross over my chest, but it doesn’t do a damn thing to quiet the twisting in my gut. Something’s gnawing at me, an itch beneath my skin that has nothing to do with the lawsuit or the emails or the way our name is getting dragged through the mud. And that’s when I realize the house is too quiet. I glance around, scanning the kitchen, the living room beyond it, the space feeling too open, too empty. The longer the silence stretches, the worse the feeling gets.

I look back at Puma. “Where are Violet and Sofie?”

Puma waves a hand, brushing the question off like it’s nothing. “Relax. They just went on an errand.” He knows exactly how Lance and I would feel about that, the pull toward Sofie stronger than it should be in such a short length of time. He knows we would have said no and I suspect that’s why he didn’t consult with us on it—not that he needed to.

“They went out?” Lance asks. “When?”

Puma rolls his eyes. “Not long ago. They’re fine. Gray went with them.” Puma sighs, glancing at how emotionally charged my brother and I are before gesturing for the both of us to sit. It isn’t a suggestion and not quite a command. Still, I drop down into the chair, waiting for an explanation. “Sofie needed something for her heat and before either of you tell me how awful of an idea it was, I’m well aware. It’s why I have my phone on me should things change and we need to spend her heat at their apartment. Violet was going to go alone, Sofie refused that option so Gray compromised and went with them. They’ll be fine.”

It’s not the worst idea and I know that. He’s reliable. If something happens—if Sofie has another spike, if she needs help—he’ll handle it. I exhale hard, trying to force the frustration out with it, but it doesn’t help. My hands are already curling into fists, nails biting into my palms, the thought of them being out there—while we’re being watched, while people are waiting for us to slip up—sits in my stomach like something rotting. I shake my head. “You should’ve put your foot down.”

Puma chuckles and then he gives me that look—the one that grates like fucking sandpaper because I already know whatever comes out of his mouth next is going to be something I can’t argue with. “Are we talking about the same Omega,” he asks, voice laced with amusement, “who crawled out of bed after literally being knotted and ran straight into her Beta’s arms?”

I hate that he’s right. Sofie isn’t like other Omegas.

She’s soft, yeah. Sweet, sure. But she’s also stubborn as hell and if she’s decided she needs Violet, then there’s no keeping her here, no reasoning with her, no convincing her otherwise. She doesn’t break, doesn’t bend the way people expect Omegas to.

Lance shifts against the counter, arms locked tight over his chest, the tension in his shoulders bleeding into the sharp edges of his voice as he changes the subject. Which thank fuck because I’m not trying to dwell on the fact that our Omega is currently outside in preheat. “We’ve gotten several emails this morning. A few cutting ties, some asking for clarification.” He exhales hard, nostrils flaring. “The rumors are sticking, Puma. They’re mixing with our name.”

Puma sighs, rubbing a hand over his jaw again before pulling out his phone. “I’ll take care of it.”

The words should be reassuring, but they don’t land that way. I watch as he dials, pressing the phone to his ear, his posture shifting, eyes hardening as he listens to whoever is on the other end. The conversation is low, mostly murmured words, short grunts, the occasional sharp exhale. Puma isn’t the type to waste breath on unnecessary talk. If there’s a problem, he gets straight to the heart of it. But whatever he’s hearing, it isn’t good.

When he turns to us after hanging up, my stomach twists. “Just got off the phone with one of the galleries in the next city over. They’re hearing it too. People are clutching their wallets.”

That means it’s not just our clients. It’s not just whispers. It’s the entire fucking industry coiling around us like a noose, tightening with every passing second. Art is built on reputation. Trust. The illusion of prestige. If people start second-guessing us, hesitating before making a purchase, questioning the legitimacy of what we sell—we’re fucked.

Before I can even process the weight of that, Puma’s phone buzzes again. A name flashes across the screen and my stomach fucking drops.

“Why the fuck is the lawyer calling you?” I growl

Puma exhales, dragging a hand through his hair before he picks up. “I’m assuming in everything you find, a client or two is probably suing us for selling them a fraudulent painting, right? I’m surprised it took them this long.” Puma lets it go to voicemail before throwing me a firm glare, silently telling me not to try anything. “I know how tempting it is to try and figure out who it is but it doesn’t matter. The damage is already done," he continues. "They don’t need proof to tarnish our name. Even if the painting turns out to be real, it’s the initial scare that gets everyone."

Fucking hell.

This is what I hate about the art world—the way whispers carry more weight than facts, the way speculation sinks deeper than truth, the way people who have never set foot in a gallery or touched a brush in their lives suddenly become experts when there's a scandal to latch onto. It doesn’t matter if we win this fight. The stain will linger. It always does.

Beside me, Lance exhales sharply, fingers pressing into his temples like he's trying to fight off a headache of his own. "What now?"

Puma sets his elbows on the counter, leaning forward just slightly, his gaze steady, unshaken. The way he carries himself, the way he speaks, the way he controls the room without raising his voice—it’s always been something I admired. "We tread carefully. For now, don’t answer or respond to a goddamn thing. Let the lawyer figure out our plan of attack." His eyes flick between me and Lance, making sure we’re listening. "But the only thing I want you two to focus on is Sofie’s heat for the next few days. That’s it. Make sure she’s comfortable. Make sure she has everything she needs."

The distraction is welcomed because I can definitely give Sofie my full attention, just as soon as she comes back. "What about Violet?" I ask, wondering why Puma didn’t mention her.

And that’s when I see it—the shift in Puma’s expression. The slight quirk of his lips, the way his eyes darken just enough to make something twist low in my stomach, the glint of something sharp, something almost predatory. He leans back, smirking like he already knows exactly where my mind is going, like he’s been waiting for me to ask. "Taking care of Violet is my job."

Lance chokes on his breath, turning away as he coughs into his fist, but I don’t miss the way his shoulders shake just slightly, the way his amusement bleeds through even as he tries to fight it.

I’m just glad Puma’s opening his heart up again and if anyone can break down those walls, it’s Violet.