Page 32 of The Forgery Mate (Taken by His Alpha #6)

T he stairs creak beneath my unsteady feet as I descend from my loft to the bookshop below. Heat burns through my veins, turning my skin to fever and my thoughts to smoke.

Each step requires more concentration than the last as my body betrays me with the need to mate.

Ezra will be waiting, I tell myself. Ezra will fix this ache inside me, this unbearable emptiness.

I fumble to open the fire safe door that separates the private space from the business side and step into the darkness of the closed shop.

I grip the banister to steady myself, scanning the shadows between bookshelves. The cardigan I threw on clings to my sweat-dampened skin, the wool scratching my hypersensitive nerve endings. My breath comes in shallow pants that echo in the quiet space.

“Ezra?” My call sounds small and desperate in the stillness of the shop.

Is he still out on the sidewalk? I’m surprised a locked door would keep him away, but maybe this is also part of the process? Waiting for me to let him in, to show my surrender, instead of entering without permission?

I shuffle farther into the shop, painfully hard but determined. Ezra waited so long for me. It’s only fair I be the one to come to him now.

But then the darkness shifts between the poetry section and ancient history, and a figure steps forward, the silver gleam of a gun barrel catching what little light filters through the dusty shop windows.

“Lorenzo Vescari. It’s been a while.”

The smooth, cultured voice is one I’ve only heard before at the auction, and despite the fever, my blood freezes.

Harcourt.

“You look surprised to see me.” He steps farther into the open with the gun held steady in his hand. “Though I must say, this is the last place I expected to find you. It’s so…quaint.”

I take a step back, and my hip bumps a display table, the books on it tumbling to the floor with soft thuds. “What are you doing here? The shop is closed.”

Harcourt chuckles, the sound devoid of humor. “Yes, I can read the sign. But since you had no qualms about breaking into my private rooms, I thought turnabout was fair play.”

My tongue feels too thick for my mouth, the heat climbing higher in my body, and I struggle to focus. I need to stall, to think, to find a way out of this. “I’m not Vescari. My name is Tobias Crane. I own this bookshop.”

“Drop the act.” Harcourt’s finger tightens on the trigger. “You’re good, I’ll give you that. But I’d recognize your face anywhere. You cost me two million dollars and my reputation in certain circles by freeing that Omega.”

My stomach swoops as I stumble deeper into the shop, moving between shelves to put books between us.

“It took some doing, but I tracked you from Halcyon Hall’s garden,” Harcourt continues, his footsteps measured as he follows me through the stacks. “You were sloppy.”

My mind races back to the auction. I’d been so rattled by Ezra that I skipped all my usual security protocols. I’d run straight to this shop, packed a bag, grabbed a new identity, and fled the country before I changed my mind about leaving him again.

The Heat surges, and my knees threaten to buckle. I brace myself against a bookshelf, my vision swimming at the edges. Of all the times for my body to betray me, it chooses now, when I need every ounce of focus and strength.

“How did you find me?” The question scratches past my dry throat.

“Had this place under surveillance for months.” Harcourt rounds the end of the aisle, the gun never wavering from my center mass. “After I connected Tobias Crane to Lorenzo Vescari, it was just a matter of waiting until you showed your face again.”

I stumble backward, putting the reference desk between us, grabbing a heavy-duty staple remover, but it shakes in my hand.

“I got reports of movement a month ago, but my people weren’t sure it was you.” Harcourt’s expensive shoes click on the hardwood floor as he circles the desk. “You should’ve kept the lights off, Vescari. You were doing so well.”

He must be talking about the day I opened the shop. The day Aaiden delivered the invitation to the Sanctum event.

“What do you want?” I ask, though I already know the answer. Men like Harcourt don’t track people down for pleasant reunions.

“The original plan was to put a bullet in your head.” Harcourt’s gaze slides to the titanium collar around my neck, then lower, taking in my flushed skin and trembling hands.

“But now I see there’s a more profitable opportunity.

You cost me the sale of an Omega, so it’s only right you to help me recoup the loss. ”

Horror crawls up my spine, colder than ice despite the fire in my blood.

“You’re insane,” I spit as another wave of Heat crashes through me, buckling my knees. I catch myself on the edge of the desk, my breath coming in ragged gasps.

“I’m a businessman,” Harcourt corrects, moving closer. “And you’re a commodity. Far more valuable alive than dead.”

“Don’t touch me,” I warn, but my voice breaks on the last word, undermining any threat I might pose.

“And how are you going to stop me?” Harcourt crowds me, his expensive cologne mixing with the musty scent of old books. “You can barely stand.”

Through the fever haze, shame burns brighter than Heat. I got caught like an amateur, trapped by my own carelessness.

“The fever’s getting worse,” Harcourt observes with clinical detachment. “We should leave before you’re incapacitated.”

I try to swallow, but my mouth is desert-dry, my tongue sticking to the roof of my mouth. The reference desk digs into my lower back as I lean away from him, and I grip the edge so hard that the recently healed cuts on my knuckles split open, blood seeping warm and sticky between my fingers.

“You won’t get away with this,” I manage, the words scraping my throat raw. “People will notice I’m missing.”

Harcourt’s lips twitch in what might be amusement. “The reclusive bookshop owner known for disappearing for weeks, or even months, at a time? I doubt it.”

He studies me, head tilted, as if appraising merchandise. “That nape guard is titanium. Custom work. Expensive. Someone’s invested in keeping you.”

I remain silent, unwilling to speak Ezra’s name in this man’s presence. If he hasn’t figured out my connection to the Rockfords, then the young Alpha who’s stolen my heart is still safe.

“No matter.” Harcourt closes the distance between us with a single step. “It can be removed with the right tools.”

His words turn my stomach, and bile rises.

This is exactly what I feared would happen, the danger of my profession catching up to me, threatening to spill over onto those I care about.

This is why I ran from Ezra, why I tried to keep him at arm’s length.

My world is full of Harcourts, men with grudges and guns who see people as assets to be liquidated or liabilities to be eliminated.

He pulls out a small case, flipping it open to reveal a syringe filled with clear liquid. Even through my Heat-addled brain, alarm bells ring with crystal clarity.

“Stay back,” I warn, the staple remover slipping in my sweaty grip.

Harcourt steps forward, gun in one hand, syringe in the other. “This doesn’t need to be unpleasant, Vescari.”

“Told you I’d find you, Harcourt.”

The greeting slices through my labored breaths, and Harcourt whirls, gun swinging toward this new intruder.

Jade steps from the shadows between two tall bookcases, his bleached blond hair almost white in the dim light. His face looks carved from stone, blue eyes flat and empty enough to chill me despite the fever.

“The Omega,” Harcourt sneers, recognition flashing across his features, the gun now pointed at Jade’s chest. “Good, I’ll have two of you to auction off now.”

Jade’s mouth twists into a mockery of humor. “Things won’t go your way this time. I’ve spent months tracking you down to ensure you never cage another Omega again.”

Through the haze of fever, I watch Jade’s fingers flex at his sides, his weight shifting forward onto the balls of his feet. The stance of a fighter preparing to strike.

Harcourt chuckles, the sound rich with condescension. “You think you can take me? I don’t need two Omegas. I can just as easily put a bullet in you and tranquilize him. Business as usual.”

“You’re not leaving this shop with him,” Jade says with the certainty of someone who’s crossed a line and has no intention of stepping back.

“Why do you even care?” Harcourt waves the syringe at me without taking the gun off Jade. “Do you have any idea who this Omega bitch even is?”

“Yes.” Jade’s lips curl back from his teeth. “He’s the man who saved me.”

What happens next blurs into fragments of reality that my Heat-soaked brain struggles to assemble into coherence.

Jade darts forward, a flash of movement too quick to follow. Harcourt squeezes the trigger, and the gunshot rings out, deafening in the enclosed space of the bookshop. The bullet embeds itself in a shelf of poetry anthologies, sending splinters and pages flying.

I flinch, ears ringing from the blast, as Jade collides with Harcourt. Metal flashes in Jade’s hand, then disappears as he drives it into Harcourt’s stomach.

Harcourt screams, his gun and syringe clattering to the floor as his hands fly to the wound, fingers scrabbling at the knife hilt protruding from his abdomen.

“This is for every Omega you’ve ever sold.” Jade twists the knife, his face inches from Harcourt’s, watching as pain contorts the older man’s features.

Harcourt staggers backward, his expensive shoes scuffing across the hardwood floor. His mouth opens and closes like a fish out of water, words failing him as his body registers the fatal wound. Blood seeps through his fingers, staining his tailored suit a deep crimson.

The shop fills with the iron-rich scent of fresh blood, cutting through the scent of aging paper and the sweetness of my Heat. It coats the back of my throat, metallic and thick.