Page 15 of The Forgery Mate (Taken by His Alpha #6)

We pass through a crowd of admirers, exchange pleasantries with a museum director, and pause before a Rodin sculpture Lorenzo would appreciate. But my focus has fractured, my attention divided between the performance and the growing certainty that Ezra is playing a deeper game than I realized.

“A masterful piece of art,” a smooth, polished voice says from beside me. “You have a good eye.”

I turn enough to give the man half my attention, eyebrow arching in silent assessment. “Yes.”

Nothing else. Rodin doesn’t need my commentary. That his work is brilliant is common knowledge. Parroting it in this room is the conversational equivalent of a wet napkin. Lorenzo does not entertain the obvious.

I skim the speaker. His suit is midnight wool, hand-finished, the kind of tailoring seen with legacy wealth. But it’s his stillness that stands out. He’s too composed, too curated. A man who’s learned how to blend in with the elite but still doesn’t belong.

I tilt my head, just a degree past polite. He’s not someone Lorenzo recognizes, and that in itself is offensive.

“Forgive the intrusion, Mr. Vescari, but I had to introduce myself to the man with the sharpest eye in the room.” He offers a gloved hand. “Harcourt Vane. I manage acquisitions for Halcyon Hall.”

“Ah. So you’re the man responsible for tonight’s entertainment.” I hold out my hand, fingers pointed downward as if expecting him to kiss my ring, making the moment awkward because this monster has a human being in a cage upstairs. “A pleasure, Mr. Vane. Your collection has… eclectic taste.”

Harcourt fumbles to squeeze my fingers, doing an awkward half-bow. “We’re delighted our efforts were intriguing enough to tempt you. If you find anything you desire tonight, let me know. I’ll see that it’s yours.”

My smile thins, and I pull my hand back, slow and deliberate, as if wiping something invisible from my palm. “I’ll keep your offer in mind.”

I turn away.

He lingers, sensing the dismissal but not quite ready to accept it. When the moment extends past what’s appropriate, he inclines his head and slips away, leaving behind the scent of expensive cologne.

Only once he takes his leave do I realize Ezra no longer hovers at my elbow. I scan the room, searching for him in the sea of patrons.

But he’s simply gone, vanished without a word or a goodbye.

Unease fills me. Ezra wouldn’t abandon his role without purpose. Whatever he’s doing, wherever he’s gone, it’s part of a plan I’m not privy to.

I scan the room once more, but find nothing.

People continue to orbit Lorenzo Vescari, waiting for an opening to approach.

Their calculation and hunger serve as the perfect cover.

Of course these events always lead to discrete liaisons.

And since Ezra has left my side, no one questions when I slip between bodies toward the eastern corridor, moving with purpose to discourage interruption.

The security guard at the base of the grand staircase gives me a cursory glance as I approach. I pull Viktor’s black card from my pocket, flashing it with the casual confidence of someone who belongs everywhere.

“Private viewing.” I infuse the words with the precise mixture of boredom and anticipation that suggests Lorenzo’s been invited.

The guard steps aside without question. The power of presumed wealth and Lorenzo’s reputation clears my path better than any lock pick or forged credentials.

Once past the checkpoint, I ascend the stairs with measured steps. Neither hurrying nor dawdling, I move like someone with legitimate business. The hired help are invisible, and the elite are expected. I am both and neither, existing in the space between roles where I’ve spent most of my life.

My shoes whisper over the thick carpet as I count my steps, checking off the turns from memory. Left at the second archway, right at the stern portrait, fifteen paces to the private salon.

At each corner, I pause, listening for footsteps, the crackle of security radios, any sign I’m not alone. The distant murmur of the party below filters up, muffled by distance and expensive insulation.

The private salon appears the same as it did the previous night, intimate in scale with cream-colored walls and deep mahogany accents. The walls are now bare, though, their empty spaces illuminated by discrete lighting.

I move to the center spot, fingers finding the small, irregular bump on the wall behind the frame. A soft click sounds from the bookcase to my left, and the hidden door shifts inward by half an inch.

My pulse remains steady as I slip through the gap into the darkness beyond. The motion sensors detect my presence, and recessed lighting flickers to life, revealing the hidden room in all its horror.

The crates from yesterday are gone, leaving only the cage where Jade kneels. His hair has been washed and styled, the dark roots now covered with fresh bleach.

Makeup covers the fading bruise on his face, blush giving his skin artificial health, while kohl emphasizes the blue of his eyes, and gloss accentuates the pout of his lips. Sheer, diaphanous fabric drapes his thin frame, revealing more than it conceals.

He’s not being held in waiting anymore. He’s being prepared for auction.

Jade’s head snaps up at my entrance, and suspicion tightens his features. “Who the fuck are you? The creep they’ve been preparing me for?”

I shake my head, hurrying to the cage. “No. I’m here to help you escape.”

He tracks my movements, confusion evident in the furrow of his brow. “Why would you help me?”

There’s no time to explain the complicated truth of how we know each other. “Questions later. We need to move quickly.”

The lock is industrial grade, but not sophisticated, designed to keep someone in rather than keep people out. Better prepared this time, I pull lock picks from my pocket and work with practiced speed, feeling for the tumblers.

I’ve been picking locks since I was nine years old, sitting cross-legged on the floor of my grandfather’s studio while he timed me with a stopwatch, promising ice cream if I beat my previous record.

The lock gives way with a satisfying click, and the cage door swings open. Jade scrambles forward, unfolding his long limbs with a wince of discomfort.

“Can you walk?” I ask, already moving toward the exit.

“Yeah.” He rises on shaky legs. “They didn’t hurt me much. Just kept me weak.” He clutches at the sheer fabric, attempting to cover himself. “They said I’d fetch a higher price if I wasn’t too damaged.”

The casual cruelty of the statement sends a chill through me. I shrug out of Lorenzo’s expensive jacket, draping it around Jade’s shoulders. The gesture costs me some of my disguise, but preserves his dignity.

“This way.” I lead him toward the entrance. “Stay close.”

We slip back through the bookcase into the private salon. The corridor beyond stretches empty in both directions, but that won’t last. Lorenzo Vescari’s absence won’t go unnoticed for long, especially with the auction scheduled to begin soon.

“We’ll take the service stairs.” I guide Jade toward the back hallway. “There’s less security coverage, and the staff are too busy to question us.”

We make it as far as the junction where the back hall meets the service corridor when we freeze at the sound of heavy footsteps approaching from the direction of our escape route.

Two security guards, moving fast, the crackle of their radios filling the air.

I push Jade into an alcove, assessing our options.

The hall behind us leads back to the private salon and the hidden room.

A dead end. The passage to our right returns to the main gallery, where too many people would recognize Lorenzo, now missing his distinctive jacket.

The approaching guards block our path to the service stairs and freedom.

I see my window of escape in a small side corridor that leads to a different staircase and exit. But with Jade weakened, he’ll slow me down. One look at his frightened face, at the way his hands tremble as they clutch my jacket around his shoulders, and I make my choice.

“Follow that hall. There’s another set of service stairs. They lead to the back garage.” I reach into my pocket and remove a car key. “In the alley behind, you’ll find a brown sedan waiting.”

Jade stares at the paper, then at me, confusion evident on his face. “What about you?”

“I’ll land on my feet,” I say with all of Larenzo’s bravado. “Just go. Don’t turn back.”

Jade hesitates for a heartbeat, then slips away, his movements surprisingly silent for someone who’s spent days in a cage. I watch until he disappears around the corner, then turn to face the approaching guards.

Lorenzo Vescari emerges in full force, not the seductive charmer from the gallery, but the outraged collector whose status has been insulted. I stagger into the middle of the hallway, letting my foot catch on the carpet as if I’m drunk.

“Impossible!” My shout echoes down the corridor. “Absolutely unacceptable! I was promised a private viewing, not to be abandoned in this maze of mediocrity!”

The guards converge on the commotion, their expressions shifting from alert to confrontational as they spot me.

“Sir, you’re not authorized to be in this area,” the taller one says, hand moving to the radio at his belt.

I draw myself up to Lorenzo’s full height, injecting outrage into every syllable. “Not authorized? Do you have any idea who I am? Lorenzo Vescari does not wait in hallways like some common collector !”

The last word drips with disdain, as if nothing could be more insulting.

“Sir, you need to return to the main gallery.” The second guard steps closer, his posture tense as he prepares for resistance.

I wave my hand dismissively. “I was invited to a private viewing by Viktor himself. If this is how Halcyon treats its premium clients, I’ll take my considerable budget elsewhere.”

Momentary uncertainty creases their brows, and the name-drop buys Jade precious seconds to put more distance between us.

Then the taller guard’s radio crackles to life. “Security breach in the east wing. All personnel on alert.”

Their uncertainty vanishes, and they move to grab my arms with bruising force.

“Hands off!” I struggle enough to be convincing, but not enough to be a true threat. “Do you have any idea how much this suit costs?”

They slam me against the wall, my cheek shoved against the expensive wallpaper. Rough hands pat down every inch of my body from collar to ankles. I don’t resist. I have nothing incriminating on me. My lock picks are in the jacket Jade took.

“He has nothing on him.” One guard steps back.

“Take him to Harcourt,” the other decides. “Let him sort this out.”

As they pull me away from the wall, my heart pounds not with fear but with a single question that drowns out everything else.

Where is Ezra?