Page 14 of The Forgery Mate (Taken by His Alpha #6)

“Always one for theatrics.” Chuckling, Marcello wags a finger at me before he wanders off.

Ezra ducks his head, but not before I catch his satisfaction at my possessive claim.

I tighten my grip on his arm and move us forward. It’s just a role. Lorenzo would never share a lover.

As I navigate through Halcyon Hall’s main gallery, Ezra stays a half-step behind me, his fingers brushing mine with deliberate casualness. Eyes follow our progress, and I meet them all with the practiced indifference of someone aware of his value in every room he enters.

Lorenzo doesn’t seek attention. It’s simply his due.

A waiter appears at my elbow with a fresh tray of champagne flutes. I exchange my empty glass for a full one, my fingers lingering on his. The young Beta blushes and almost spills the remaining drinks as he hurries away.

“Lorenzo Vescari, as I live and breathe!”

The call cuts through the ambient chatter, pitched to carry.

I turn to find a woman draped in a sequined wrap that catches the light with every movement, transforming her into a walking disco ball. She wears her silver hair swept into an elaborate updo, and diamonds drip from her earlobes with vulgar abundance.

Marquise something-or-other. I’ve met her at three different auctions in the past, and she’s tried to take me to bed after each one. She’s marked me as her husband number five, and I enjoy playing the game of allowing her to chase with no intention of giving in.

“Marquise.” I take her offered hand and kiss her papery skin. “You look ravishing, as always.”

“Such a charmer.” Her fingers trap mine, preventing escape. “I’ve missed you terribly since Paris. The circuit has been positively dreary without your presence.”

Ezra stiffens beside me, but his face reveals nothing beyond polite interest.

Her attention slides to him with the cool appraisal of someone evaluating a choice piece of steak. “And who is this delicious creature?”

“My companion for the evening,” I answer, vague because Lorenzo never explains his attachments.

“How lovely.” The Marquise’s expression turns brittle. “Perhaps you’ll both join me later? My suite at the Carillon has the most spectacular view of the harbor.”

Lorenzo would accept such an invitation with a knowing smirk, leaving possibilities open. But Ezra’s presence beside me changes the game.

“Perhaps another time, Marquise. I’m particularly focused on tonight’s offerings.”

She pouts, disappointed but not surprised. “You always were single-minded when it came to acquisition.” Her fingers dance down my lapel. “But my door remains open, should you change your mind.”

I extract myself with practiced grace, steering Ezra deeper into the crowded gallery.

His expression remains neutral, but tension radiates from his body. “You’ve been busy while I was searching for you.”

Before I can tell him it was years before we met, another figure materializes before us, a man with angular features and flinty eyes. His suit is tailored to meet the standards of high society, but it can’t mask the predatory nature that rolls off him.

“Lorenzo.” His accent places him somewhere in Eastern Europe. “I didn’t believe the rumors until now.”

“Viktor.” I extend my hand, which he grasps with unnecessary force. “Still acquiring for the private gallery in Prague?”

“Among other interests. I’ve diversified since our last meeting.” His attention lingers on Ezra’s body, and he licks teeth too perfect to be natural. “Your tastes remain exquisite.”

Viktor steps into my personal space. “Did you hear that there’s a private viewing after the main auction? Very exclusive. The type of rare merchandise that would interest a collector of your discerning nature.”

My stomach tightens. He must be talking about Jade.

“I’m intrigued.” I match his conspiratorial tone. “Though my interests tonight are primarily artistic.”

“Of course, but true art takes many forms, don’t you agree? Some breathe, some bleed.” He slips a small black card into my palm. “Should your interests expand beyond canvas and stone.”

He disappears into the crowd, leaving behind the scent of expensive cologne. I pocket the card, careful to keep my expression neutral.

“Charming friends you have,” Ezra comments, the words light, but the steel beneath unmistakable.

We continue our circuit of the room, Lorenzo’s presence drawing attention like gravity.

A sommelier offers me a sample of rare port.

A dealer in antiquities corners me to discuss a recent acquisition from a temple in Cambodia.

Each interaction builds Lorenzo’s presence in the room, reinforcing his reputation.

Then a familiar figure separates from the group near the bar, a tall man with bronze skin and a scar bisecting his left eyebrow.

Recognition hits me low in the stomach. Claude Renoir, an art restorer from Geneva who shared Lorenzo’s bed for three consecutive nights during the Basel Art Fair two years ago.

Before I can direct Ezra elsewhere, Claude beelines over to us. “Lorenzo, it’s been far too long.”

He doesn’t bother with handshakes, leaning in to kiss both my cheeks, lingering too close, his cologne surrounding me in an unpleasant cloud. His hand settles on my arm, fingers caressing my bicep through my sleeve.

“Claude,” I greet him, injecting enough warmth to acknowledge our past without inviting a repeat. “I didn’t expect you to attend this event.”

“I go where the interesting pieces are.” He turns his body to edge Ezra out. “And where interesting people might be found.”

Claude steps closer, his body almost flush with mine. “I’ve thought often of our time in Basel. The way you described the brushstrokes on that Caravaggio while your hands were busy elsewhere…” His lips curve into a private smile. “You gave me a new appreciation for chiaroscuro.”

I laugh, the sound belonging entirely to Lorenzo, rich, practiced, encouraging without promising. My hand rises to adjust Claude’s already perfect tie, a familiar gesture that speaks of past intimacy. Lorenzo would maintain these connections and nurture them for future use.

I let my fingers linger on his collar. “You haven’t changed.”

Claude captures my hand and kisses my palm with a fervor inappropriate for public display. “Neither have you. Still the most fascinating man in any room.” He nibbles on my fingertip. “Perhaps we can continue this conversation somewhere more private? For old time’s sake?”

Before I can answer, Ezra steps up to my side, a fresh glass of champagne in hand.

He offers it to me with a look that promises retribution later. “Your drink, Lorenzo.”

His other hand finds the small of my back in a casual claim that everyone nearby takes notice of.

Ezra leans close, lips brushing my ear in what appears to be an affectionate gesture. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were enjoying this. Just know I’m going to wreck every piece of you they touch.”

The threat sends heat spiraling through me, inappropriate and unwelcome for the role I play tonight. I accept the champagne, taking a slow sip as Claude observes the exchange with a glare.

“Another time, perhaps,” I tell Claude, dismissing him with the practiced ease of someone used to discarding lovers.

With clear reluctance, he retreats, his expression promising future encounters.

Ezra’s hand remains at my back, guiding me toward the far wall where several paintings hang under directed lighting, and the encounter with Claude slips from my thoughts as my attention settles on Anatomy of a Ghost .

My forgery, hanging on Halcyon’s wall while the original rests in the secure stash box in my car, currently parked in the Rockford estate’s garage.

Pride mingles with anxiety in my chest, watching others admire what is perhaps my finest work.

“It’s exquisite.” Ezra steps up beside me, observing the same details I do. “Exactly like the one in my bedroom.”

My skin prickles at the comment. Faced with this one, which does he believe is real? He’d be wrong either way. They’re both fake.

A woman in a midnight blue gown pauses beside us. “Magnificent, isn’t it? The crown jewel of tonight’s auction.”

“Indeed,” I reply in Lorenzo’s cultured tones. “Though its provenance is complicated.”

“Oh?” She turns to me, curious about the story. “How so?”

I offer the official version, the one that appears in auction catalogs and museum notes. “It vanished from public view for almost three decades before resurfacing in a private collection. They say it was misplaced in a museum storage facility during a renovation.”

“Fascinating!” She spins back to the painting with more interest. “The mystery behind great art is often as compelling as the works themselves.”

Ezra clears his throat. “Didn’t an art thief by the name of Abílio Merces steal it?”

Ice shoots through my veins. My grandfather’s name in Ezra’s mouth feels like an impossibility. How could he know it? Abílio Merces was arrested under a different name. His real identity was only revealed after he died in prison.

“No,” I manage, keeping Lorenzo’s composure by sheer will. “That’s just a romantic story to add to its history. It was rediscovered at a museum where it had been misplaced.”

When I frown at Ezra, he offers me a guileless smile that does nothing to ease my nerves. By revealing knowledge he shouldn’t possess, he threw me off balance on purpose, and the message rattles through me. He knows more about me than I’ve chosen to share.

Was last night a game? If he connected my grandfather to me, then he knew my real name long before I gave it to him. But he savored the moment I offered it up, thinking it was by choice.

We move on, continuing our circuit of the gallery, but my mind races, calculating how deep Ezra’s research into my past might have gone. The weight of his hand on my back becomes proprietary as I remember his promise to break me.