Page 37 of The Forgery Mate (Taken by His Alpha #6)

M orning light filters through the dusty windows of my loft, painting stripes across our tangled bodies.

My muscles ache with a pleasant soreness, evidence of what transpired during the fevered days of my Heat.

Ezra’s arm rests across my chest, his breath puffing gently against the back of my neck where his Mark burns dull and sweet on my nape.

I trace the line of his forearm with my fingertips, the skin smooth over hard muscle. His tattoos are a map I’ve yet to fully explore, each line and curve telling stories I now have time to learn.

With practiced stealth, I slide from beneath his hold, careful not to disturb his sleep. The sheets whisper as I lift them, the cool morning air raising goose bumps across my naked skin.

For a moment, I hover above him, studying the planes of his face in repose. Sleep softens him, erasing the hunter’s edge that’s always present when he’s awake, restoring the youth his silver-streaked hair belies.

My hand drifts to my nape, fingers exploring my Mark.

The raised skin, tender under my touch, forms a perfect impression of Ezra’s teeth.

Over the next day, it will settle into my flesh, staking his Alpha’s right over me for the next thirty days.

The knowledge sends a shiver through me, a physical memory of the moment he broke my skin, and I broke apart in his arms.

As I pull on Ezra’s discarded shirt, a metallic wink from the kitchen catches my attention.

The titanium collar lies on the counter, and I walk over to pick it up, testing its weight and the smooth curves custom-designed for my throat.

Beside it sits the key Ezra placed there in a gesture of trust that spoke volumes.

Without hesitation, I slip the collar around my neck, the metal cool on my skin. It settles into place with a soft click, its weight comforting now rather than confining. The key slides into my pocket, caught between my fingers for a moment as I consider what it represents.

Freedom given instead of taken. Choice over compulsion.

I pad barefoot across the wooden floor, wincing at the occasional creak, but it doesn’t disturb Ezra’s slumber. Morning sun illuminates my loft in harsh detail, revealing the destruction I’ve wrought over these past days.

Broken pencils litter my workstation, and half-finished canvases lean on walls, abandoned mid-creation when the personas they represented no longer fit.

This space, once curated to hide, now stands exposed, the wreckage of my multiple lives strewn across every surface.

I pick up a pair of wire-rimmed glasses, the lenses cracked when I threw them at the wall in frustration. One of Knox’s many pairs, now useless. Beside them lie Lorenzo’s monogrammed cufflinks, bought with money from a forgery sold in Milan, their gold surface scratched from rough handling.

On the far wall, Tobias Crane’s tweed jacket hangs, the elbows worn smooth from hours spent hunched over rare books. I run my fingers down the rough fabric, remembering the quiet anonymity it granted me, the invisibility I once craved.

The morning light catches on the jar on the windowsill and turns its contents to glittering dust. I lift it down, the glass warming my palm as I swirl the ashes from my sketches of Ezra.

There’s a strange poetry in holding these remains, dozens of Ezras reduced to carbon, while the real one sleeps in my bed.

My focus drifts to the wall, where my grandfather’s legacy hangs. The real Anatomy of a Ghost .

I cross to it, fingers hesitating before I take it down and roll it up, returning it to the tube that sits propped in the corner.

This, too, must go.

Moving with quiet determination, I gather all the fragments of my discarded lives. Lorenzo’s silk handkerchiefs and monogrammed stationery. Tobias’s reading glasses and leather bookmarks. Knox’s lecture notes and fake credentials. Each item goes into a canvas tote bag.

Last, I return to the tube containing Anatomy of a Ghost , sliding it inside the bag.

Wrapped only in Ezra’s discarded shirt, which hangs to mid-thigh, I move to the spiral staircase that leads to my building’s roof. The metal steps are cold beneath my bare feet, sending shivers up my legs as I climb. Each step takes me further from what I was, closer to what I might become.

The door at the top creaks open when I push, revealing the rooftop patio bathed in early morning light.

The city spreads below, buildings catching the sun’s rays, windows flashing like signals across the urban landscape.

A breeze carries the scent of car exhaust and fresh bread from the bakery two blocks over, the mingled perfume of city life.

In the center of the patio stands a stone fireplace, installed by the previous tenant. It waits, cold and empty, ready to consume what I’m prepared to give up.

I arrange everything in a careful pile within the stone fireplace, a funeral pyre for the men I’ve been. Last from the bag comes the art tube.

My fingers linger on it before extracting the canvas with reverent care. The morning sun catches on the aged surface as I unroll it one last time.

This painting has haunted three generations: Valenne himself, my grandfather who forged it with heartbreaking perfection, and me, who spent years searching for this original to replace my grandfather’s creation in Ezra’s collection.

A ghost indeed, pulling strings from beyond frames and time.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper to the canvas, to my grandfather, to the ghost. “It’s time to let you go.”

I add the painting to the pile, watching as it curls at the edges, trying to roll inward on itself.

The lighter sits heavy in my hand as I run my thumb over the flint, striking the spark that catches flame. I hold it to the corner of a silk handkerchief, and fire catches quickly, dancing from fabric to paper, painting hungry orange trails across the funeral pyre of my past lives.

The fire reaches the canvas last, as if respecting its significance.

When the flames lick at its edges, the painting fights back, the oils resisting for several heartbeats before surrendering.

The ghost at its center moves within the fire, anatomical sketches emerging through the heat before dissolving into smoke.

“Are you burning more pictures of me?”

I turn to find Ezra in the doorway, wrapped in the blanket from my bed. His hair stands in sleep-mussed spikes, the silver streak catching morning light. His chest is bare beneath the blanket, displaying the tattooed journey of his own history of loss and reclamation.

Heat that has nothing to do with the fire flashes through me. “Not this time.”

He crosses to stand beside me, the blanket trailing behind him like a king’s robe. His shoulder brushes mine as he peers into the flames, watching as they consume decades of deception. “What is all this?”

“The men I’m not anymore.” I gesture to the fire where Lorenzo’s pocket square has already turned to ash. “And the original Anatomy of a Ghost .”

Ezra stiffens, then lurches forward to stare into the flames. “The what?”

“The original.” The painting is nearly gone now, its edges blackened, the ghost at its center almost consumed. “The real Valenne.”

“You—” He stares as the last corner curls in on itself. “That was worth millions. People have been searching for it for decades.”

“I know.” The flames reflect in his shocked expression, dancing gold across his features. “I’ve been hunting it since I was eighteen.”

“And you’re burning it.” It’s not a question, but his tone carries disbelief edged with respect. Or understanding.

“There can only be one Anatomy of a Ghost now.” I meet his gaze. “My grandfather’s. The one in your collection.”

The realization dawns across his face, his lips parting. “You’re erasing every other version.”

“Once I steal back my forgery from Halcyon Hall, Grandfather’s will stand alone.

The most perfect art forgery in history will become the original.

” A weight lifts from my chest, as if the words have been waiting years to be spoken.

“His greatest work will finally be recognized for what it is. A masterpiece.”

Ezra’s laugh fills the air, wild with wonder. His hand finds mine, fingers intertwining as we watch the last fragments of canvas blacken and curl. “You magnificent bastard.”

“It was always the better painting, anyway.” Pride for my grandfather fills me. “He understood Valenne’s intention better than Valenne himself did.”

Ezra turns to face me, his free hand cupping my jaw. “You know, I bought your forgery, too.”

My breath catches. “What?”

“From Harcourt. At the auction.” His thumb traces my lower lip. “Couldn’t let anyone else have a piece of you.”

The revelation strikes me silent. All these months, I’d assumed the painting remained at Halcyon Hall. But Ezra had claimed it for himself, just as he’d claimed me.

“So now you own both Mercier versions,” I finally manage. “The only two in existence.”

He leans down to kiss me. “And they’re both priceless.”

“About that.” I step closer, my hands finding his waist beneath the blanket. “I hid Aaiden’s check in the frame.”

“His what?”

“The check he wrote me. Fifty grand to leave you.” Heat rises to my face at the admission. “I couldn’t keep it, so when I packed up my belongings, I hid it behind the canvas backing.”

Ezra laughs again and opens the blanket, pulling me inside its warmth, wrapping us both in shared heat. My back meets his chest, his arms crossing over mine as we face the dying fire together.

“We’ll have another fire when you come home,” he murmurs in my ear.

I lean back into him, relishing the solid wall of his chest, the steady rhythm of his heartbeat. “Am I not home already?”

“If you mean this building…” His arms tighten around me. “I’ll burn it, too.”

The threat carries no malice, only the same possessive certainty that has defined Ezra from the moment we met.

“After what happened with Harcourt, I don’t think I’d mind it burning. I’m done with Tobias.” I turn my head, resting it on his shoulder, the blanket a cocoon around us. “But I meant you . You’re my home now.”

His breath hitches, a small tell that his composure isn’t as complete as it appears. Then his lips find the back of my neck, kissing right above the protective guard at my nape, sending shivers cascading down my spine.

“What about your work?” he asks, his breath warm on my ear in the cool morning air. “Can you give it up so easily?”

The question deserves honest consideration. Forgery has been my life, my inheritance, my only real skill. “I’m not sure. It’s all I’ve ever known.”

“What if I offered you a job?” His voice shifts, the businessman emerging beneath the lover. “A legitimate one, using your skills.”

I twist in his arms to face him, staying within the warm circle of the blanket. “Doing what?”

“Art authentication.” His eyes spark with an idea clearly formed long before this moment. “Finding forgeries instead of creating them. Recovering lost works. Using your talents to preserve beauty rather than replicate it.”

The concept blooms in my mind, a future I’d never considered, a path that uses what I know without requiring me to hide. A life in the light rather than the shadows.

“Would we work together?” The question carries all my uncertainty and hope.

His smile unfurls with a hunter’s satisfaction as his prey willingly walks into his arms. “Every day.”

The dying fire casts an orange light across his face, highlighting the angles that first drew me to him. The blanket flutters around us in the morning breeze, a fragile shelter from the world. Within its confines, I turn from the ashes of my past to lean against my future.

“Then, yes.”