Page 20 of The Forgery Mate (Taken by His Alpha #6)

I adjust my glasses, straightening shoulders that aren’t quite mine. Professor Elias Knox does not slouch. He moves with the quiet confidence of a man aware of the value of everything he sees.

The night air cools my skin as I stand before Sanctum’s entrance, its modern facade a stark contrast to the historic buildings surrounding it. Steel and glass dominate where brick and mortar once stood, the gallery as much a statement as the art it contains.

I take a deep breath, letting Knox settle into my bones like a second skin, and push through the heavy doors.

Sanctum opens before me, a brutalist cathedral with unpainted concrete floors and walls that rise to meet exposed beams overhead.

Lighting crisscrosses the industrial ceiling, casting pools of illumination onto works hung with minimalist restraint.

It transforms what could be cold and sterile into another form of artwork, each shadow as deliberate as the art it frames.

A server materializes at my elbow, offering champagne from a tray balanced on a black glove. I accept a flute, careful not to let our fingers brush. Professor Knox is not an overt flirt. He’s a challenge to be pursued by those with the resources to hold his interest.

Forgeries Through History: Art, Authenticity, and the Masters of Deception announces a placard near the entrance, the text etched into brushed metal that catches the light as patrons pass.

A fitting theme for this gallery’s inaugural exhibition. A fitting trap for me.

I drift through the space, a glass of champagne a prop in my hand as I scan faces and canvases with equal interest. Conversations float around me in fragments.

“—simply exquisite, the attention to detail?—”

“—could have sworn it was the original Rembrandt?—”

“—hear the owner acquired them through mysterious channels?—”

Knox moves with measured steps, pausing before each piece with scholarly interest, head tilted at the precise angle of someone cataloging brushstrokes and pigments to compare against a mental archive.

The persona is comfortable, worn as smooth as a river stone.

With Knox, I can appreciate beauty without revealing hunger.

Can discuss technique without betraying knowledge no academic should possess.

I round a corner and freeze, champagne halfway to my lips.

Three paintings hang side by side on the far wall, isolated from the others by both space and lighting. My grandfather’s works. Not just any forgeries, but the pieces that established his reputation among collectors willing to pay for “alternate provenance.”

His religious triptych makes strong use of the contrasts between light and dark to create a sense of volume and depth within the two-dimensional format.

My eyes seek out the twentieth-century wristwatch on a saint, a modern belt buckle on a martyr.

His signature joke at the expense of the masters whose techniques he mastered.

These should not exist. The authorities seized everything from his studio. Everything was burned or disappeared into government evidence rooms, never to emerge again.

Yet here they hang, perfectly preserved, perfectly lit, perfectly framed.

My fingers tremble around the delicate stem of my champagne flute. I force myself to take controlled, measured breaths, though my heart pounds erratically, and my shirt collar cuts into my throat.

“Stunning examples of mid-century forgery technique,” reads the small plaque beside them. “Artist Unknown, though evidence suggests a single hand. Acquired from a private European collection.”

Unknown. My grandfather remains nameless, even here.

A memory surfaces of his hands, liver-spotted and veined, guiding mine across canvas, linseed oil and turpentine perfuming our small apartment.

His vocals roughened by cigarettes and age, whispering, “The secret isn’t in copying what they painted, but in feeling what they felt.

You must love what they loved. Hate what they hated. Only then can you recreate their hand.”

I move closer, gaze tracing the deliberate imperfection in the Virgin’s left hand, so subtle most viewers would miss it. My throat constricts, pressure building behind my eyes that threatens to crack the careful mask of Knox.

Someone preserved them. Protected them. Displayed them not as frauds to be held in contempt but as masterworks of deception to be admired. The realization blooms within me, an uncomfortable heat spreading beneath my skin.

“The technique is remarkable, isn’t it?”

The words slip into my consciousness like pigment in water, blooming outward until I’m awash in its color. I don’t need to turn to know who stands behind me. My body recognizes him first on pure instinct, a live current of electricity racing through me.

Ezra steps into my peripheral vision, close enough for his sleeve to brush mine. He’s dressed in charcoal gray, the fabric catching the light as he moves. New tattoos peek from his collar, extending higher up his neck than they did three months ago.

More hurt that I caused, punched into his skin by a thousand needle points to give the pain purpose.

His hand settles at the small of my back, warm through the thin fabric of my jacket. The touch is casual, proprietary, the gesture of someone familiar with how my body responds to his proximity.

“Professor Knox,” he says, the greeting pitched to pique the interest of those who stand nearby. “I was hoping you’d accept my invitation. Your expertise in authentication techniques is unparalleled.”

His lips form a practiced smile. This is a choreographed dance for the benefit of watching patrons, and I slide into the steps like I was born to them.

“Mr. Rockford.” Knox’s cultured aloofness emerges from my throat. “An impressive collection. You’ve acquired some interesting pieces.”

“I have a knack for recognizing value where others see only imitation.” His fingers press firmer on my back, guiding me toward the next painting. “This series, for instance. Most collectors would dismiss them as derivative. But the artist understood something fundamental about creation.”

His mouth hovers near my ear, breath warm on my skin. “That sometimes the greatest act of devotion is recreation.”

My pulse quickens, blood rushing in my ears loud enough to drown the ambient conversation. His words carry a double meaning, cutting through Knox’s careful armor to the real me. To Ren. To the forger who spent a lifetime recreating beauty he couldn’t claim as his own.

“An interesting perspective.” I manage to sound steady despite the tremor running through me. “Though I imagine the original artists might disagree.”

Ezra’s low, intimate laugh draws curious glances from nearby patrons. His hand slides lower, resting a breath above the curve of my ass, a touch so possessive it borders on inappropriate for such a public setting.

“Join me for a private tour later?” The question carries more weight than its simple words suggest. “There are pieces in my private collection I’d love your professional opinion on.”

I bite the inside of my cheek, anchoring myself with pain to stop the spread of heat heading toward my groin.

This is just another lie, I tell myself.

But my body responds to him with embarrassing eagerness.

Knox’s control slips, revealing the man beneath who remembers all too well the warmth of those hands on my bare skin.

Coming here as Knox was a bad idea. Knox already fell under Ezra’s spell during their first encounter.

“I’ll consider it.” The words emerge breathier than intended.

Victory flashes across his handsome features as he notes the flush creeping up my neck, the slight dilation of my pupils. “Excellent. For now, allow me to introduce you to some of our patrons. They’re dying to hear about your restoration work at the Louvre.”

I allow him to guide me toward a cluster of collectors dressed in elegant attire, his hand never leaving my back, his body a constant presence at my side. Knox smiles and nods and offers scholarly insights when prompted, but beneath the performance, Ren’s thoughts scatter.

My grandfather’s paintings, rescued from obscurity. Ezra’s knowing touch at the base of my spine. The bait disguised as an invitation to an elaborate trap.

Yet I can’t bring myself to care, not when Ezra’s fingers trace small circles on my back, reminding me with each subtle movement of everything I left behind.

Two hours into the event, the gallery lights dim, the sudden shift pulling conversation to a halt mid-sentence. Champagne flutes pause at lips, and heads turn in unison toward the center of the room, where a single spotlight cuts through the darkness to illuminate a small, raised platform.

In the darkness, Ezra’s hand drops to my ass, giving me a parting squeeze before he leaves to step into the light. Shadows sculpt his features, giving him an ethereal appearance, and the silver streak in his hair glows like a beacon guiding lost souls home.

He lifts the microphone with the ease of someone used to commanding attention.

His charcoal suit swallows the light, casting him in sharp lines and deliberate restraint.

Even from across the gallery, I feel the shift in the room’s center of gravity, everything tilting toward him, as if we’re all satellites in his orbit.

“Good evening, and welcome to Sanctum.” His voice fills the space, rich in contrast to the cold concrete and steel.

“I’ve been told opening speeches should be brief, that art should speak for itself.

But tonight’s exhibition is about the spaces between speaking and silence, between authenticity and deception. ”

The crowd shifts, bodies leaning forward. Knox would analyze this phenomenon with detached interest, the Alpha influence, the modulated tone designed to captivate. But beneath Knox’s scholarly facade, I find myself holding my breath, waiting for what comes next.