Page 23 of The Forgery Mate (Taken by His Alpha #6)

I meet his eyes, finding challenge there, but also hurt. “You want beauty. Excitement. The next acquisition. You’re at the beginning of everything, and I’m?—”

“A coward.” He cuts me off, the word sharp enough to draw blood. “You’re hiding behind age as if it’s the real problem and not the most convenient excuse.”

My mouth opens, then closes, the argument dying on my tongue. Because he’s right. The age difference was never the real issue. It was the socially acceptable reason to run from the terror of wanting more with Ezra.

Ezra’s thumb brushes across my cheekbone, the touch unexpectedly gentle. “You were never an acquisition for me, Ren. And I’m not the innocent boy you’ve built up in your mind to justify leaving.”

My throat tightens around words I can’t form, around truths I’m not ready to face. His weight on my thighs holds me prisoner when every instinct screams to flee.

“I’m not na?ve enough to think all of your fears are going to vanish just because I carried you up here,” he continues, his expression softening. “But I am stubborn enough to make you face them, one by one, until you run out of excuses.”

His hand moves from my face to my tie, fingers working the knot with practiced ease. “Starting with this delicious professor costume.”

Despite everything, a laugh escapes. Ezra’s expression lights with answering amusement, and for a brief, suspended moment, we’re just two people enjoying a moment together.

But then the laughter fades, leaving behind a charged silence.

Ezra’s weight shifts on the bed as he reaches into his pocket, his movements almost cautious. His focus never leaves my face, watching for a reaction I haven’t yet given to a gift I haven’t yet received.

“Here.” He pulls out a small box wrapped in matte black paper. “Before you disappear again.”

I take it with reluctance, the weight slight in my grasp. The smooth, expensive paper slips beneath my skin as I turn it over, searching for tape or seams.

Ezra grows impatient. “It won’t bite.”

Despite his urging, I unwrap the gift with care, the habits of preservation ingrained through years of handling delicate objects. The box within is unadorned, a simple black cube with no markings or brand names.

Suddenly afraid of what I might find inside, I hesitate before lifting the lid, and I gasp.

Black velvet cradles a small glass vial, its ultramarine contents catching the dim bedroom light with a blue-violet shimmer. The pigment is extracted from lapis lazuli, ground by traditional methods to preserve the subtle variations in color that synthetic versions can never quite capture.

My fingers hover over the vial, not quite touching, afraid it might disappear like so much else in my life. The color calls to me, vibrant and impossible, a piece of history captured in finely ground stone.

I mentioned it once, during our thirty-one days together.

A passing comment about a color I’d been trying to recreate for a restoration project, a specific shade used in a fifteenth-century Madonna that modern materials couldn’t quite match.

I hadn’t thought he was listening. Hadn’t believed anyone would remember such a trivial detail about my work.

But he had. And now this ghost of memory sits in my hands, made real.

“I remember everything.” Ezra catalogues my reaction with an intensity that burns. “Even the things you wish I’d forget.”

The genuine care behind the gesture cuts deeper than any accusation ever could. It would be easier if he’d been cruel, if he’d leveraged my deception against me, if he’d given me reasons to keep running. This generosity and attention to detail leave me nowhere to hide.

I close the box, unable to look at it or him. “We shouldn’t be doing this.”

Ezra huffs with annoyance. “It’s seven years. Get over it.”

“I told you, it’s not just the age,” I whisper, my shoulders pulling inward.

“No, it’s not,” Ezra agrees, his hands slipping behind me to straighten my spine once more. “It’s the risk. It’s wanting something too much. I get it.”

My head snaps up, surprised at the accuracy of his assessment. How can he know me so well when I’ve spent a lifetime ensuring no one does?

“You don’t?—”

“I do.” He cuts me off, leaning in until our chests brush, and the contact sends sparks through my body despite the layers of fabric between us. “You think I don’t understand risk? My family built an empire by calculating odds, knowing how much to wager, and knowing when to walk away.”

His hand finds mine, fingers curling around my wrist where my pulse beats an erratic rhythm beneath his touch. “But some bets are worth it, even when the odds aren’t stacked in your favor. Some risks are worth taking because the potential reward matters more than the fear of losing.”

I look down at our joined hands, at the place where his skin meets mine, and a terrifying certainty fills me that he’s right.

He’s always been right, and running was never about protecting him.

It was about shielding myself from the devastation of losing the first thing I’ve ever truly wanted for myself.

“I’m a forgery,” I whisper, the confession dragged from some secret place inside me. “Everything about me is manufactured. There’s nothing real here for you to?—”

“Bullshit.” The word cracks between us, sharp and unexpected. “That’s the convenient lie you tell yourself to avoid the harder truth. The forgeries are defensive layers around a very real desire that scared you enough to build all those shells in the first place.”

He tilts my chin up so that I have no choice but to meet his gaze. “I’ve spent years tracking you, learning every alias, every disguise. Do you think I did all that for some fake?”

I don’t miss the plural he put on years , reminding me he’s been invested far longer than I have.

But I open my mouth to argue anyway, to explain all the reasons this can’t work, all the dangers that wait for both of us if we pursue this madness.

Ezra’s fingers over my lips silence me. “Stop running, Ren. You’re not getting away from me.”

He replaces his fingers with his mouth, the kiss chaste, waiting. Unlike the forceful kiss in the bathroom, this one carries a steady patience, inexorable as the tide.

My hands rise of their own accord, fingers gripping the crisp fabric of his shirt. For a heartbeat, they hover with indecision, to push away or pull closer, to end this or surrender. The moment stretches, time suspended between one choice and another.

Then my fingers curl, bunching his shirt as I draw him nearer. A rumble escapes him, satisfaction mingled with hunger, as his arms encircle me, one hand sliding to the nape of my neck, the other spreading over the small of my back.

The kiss deepens, the controlled patience giving way to desperation. His tongue traces the seam of my lips, seeking entrance that I have neither the strength nor the desire to deny.

I open to him, allowing him to claim my mouth as he’s claimed every other part of me, with the absolute conviction that I’m already his.

His hand finds the box I still clutch between us, removing it and placing it off to the side.

“Later,” he promises against my lips. “We have time.”

And for once, I allow myself to believe.