Page 38 of The Forgery Mate (Taken by His Alpha #6)

Six months can change more than the seasons.

Sanctum’s doors are open now, not as a front for my family’s smuggling, but as a space reborn. What once concealed stolen artwork has become a sanctuary of restoration, a legitimate gallery dedicated to recovering, authenticating, and celebrating art in all its forms.

I meander through the space, absorbing the subtle tension of opening night. I admire the brushstrokes, the cracked varnish, the lives these pieces have lived. Ren curated every inch of this with his eye for emotional artwork, and his essence breathes throughout the room.

A perfume of champagne and fresh paint fills the air, layered with the subtle spice of the incense I blend myself, with notes of sandalwood and bergamot. Copper dishes cradle the slow-burning sticks, their smoke evaporating into nothing.

Above us, our apartment breathes a different life, too.

Once minimalistic, it now glows with warmth and deliberate disorder.

Ren’s easels stand beside my relics, our books mingled, our pasts layered in quiet harmony.

His grandfather’s paintbrushes sit in a crystal vase beside my collection of antique keys, physical manifestations of our merged histories.

Tonight is the culmination of everything.

Our exhibit opening. Months of labor, years of history, lifetimes of hiding and becoming.

The guests sip from long-stemmed flutes, their quiet admiration creating a soft current beneath the hum of conversation.

The gallery vibrates with attention, and pride fills me.

While this isn’t the first exhibit I’ve hosted, it’s the most important one.

At the center of the exhibit hangs our collaboration, Anatomy of Love , bathed in a spotlight. Eight feet of canvas, unapologetic and raw, stitched with memory and meaning. It echoes Valenne in style, but not in soul.

His figures were ghosts. Ours are grounded. Real. The forms of two men, one broad, silver streaking through dark hair, the other lean, wrists marked by shackles long since broken. They curve around each other in an embrace that speaks of protection and surrender in equal measure.

Around them swirl the symbols we chose together.

Gears for time lost and found, bristles burning into flame, and chess pieces in eternal deadlock.

The background flickers depending on where you stand, shifting from Sanctum’s exposed beams, to Ren’s shattered loft mirrors, to the cliff from Valenne’s original ghost. Gold leaf veins trace our points of contact, kintsugi in human form, broken parts mended and made stronger with beauty.

The plaque reads:

Anatomy of Love

Mixed media on canvas.

Ren Mercier

His name. His real name. No mask. No performance. Just Ren, public and whole.

I find him already at the painting, his silhouette outlined by the soft light.

My hand slips into his with practiced certainty.

Our fingers fit without thought, my thumb brushing the platinum band on his left hand, a twin of mine.

No more collars. Just a choice we both made and continue to make every day.

“They’re offering obscene amounts already,” I murmur near his ear. “Some Texas oil baron wants to hang it in his private vault.”

Ren bumps my hip with his, the answer already written in the set of his jaw. “Not for sale.”

“That’s what I told him.” I let my pride shine through. “Some things don’t belong to the highest bidder. They belong to the one who made them.”

We stand in silence, not needing words. The true masterpiece isn’t what hangs on the wall, it’s who stands beside me, holding my hand. A man who burned his ghosts and walked out of the ashes entirely his own.

As a server passes, I pluck two flutes of champagne off the tray and offer Ren one. He sips, green eyes over the rim of the glass catching the light, and I feel it again, that pulse of possession, that deep, cellular need to have him, protect him, and keep him close.

“Knox would’ve hated this.” He sweeps a glance around the crowded gallery. “Too many people. Too many eyes.”

“Lorenzo would’ve complained about the champagne.” I grin. “And Tobias would be hiding in the corner behind a book.”

“Lucky,” he says, quieter now, “I’m no longer any of them.”

My fingers find the Mark at his nape, faint now, but permanent. Three cycles sealed it. Three times, he gave himself to me without coercion, my Ren , choosing me .

“Lucky,” I echo, “we both know who you are now.”

The gallery moves around us, oblivious to what it means for him to be standing here with his real name on a plaque, without a costume to hide behind.

I sense him watching me, and I wait, knowing he’ll speak when he’s ready.

“You were right,” he says, low enough for my ears alone. “About me. About us.”

I tilt my head, waiting.

“You said you wanted all of me. Every lie. Every truth. You were the only one who ever meant it.”

I reach out to rest a possessive hand at the small of his back, fingers stroking the familiar line of his spine. “I still want more.”

He huffs a soft laugh. “Greedy.”

“Always,” I murmur. “But only with you.”

He leans into me like gravity has shifted. And maybe it has.

A woman approaches, her heels clicking, pen already poised. A critic. I shift, angling myself between her and Ren. Not to shield, but to guard. There’s a difference, and Ren knows it now.

“Mr. Mercier, Mr. Rockford,” she says. “Would you mind telling me about the symbolism behind Anatomy of Love ? Many are calling it a modern masterpiece.”

Ren’s hand slips back into mine, and I look down at him, not at the canvas, not at the crowd, just at him. What she sees is a painting. What I see is every version of him layered in gold leaf and firelight.

As he answers, I stay silent, listening not only to his words but to the steadiness behind them. His presence. His truth.

She thinks she’s come to interview an artist.

She doesn’t realize she’s standing in the presence of a creation far more valuable than anything hanging on these walls.

He is the masterpiece.

And I was lucky enough to be a part of painting him.

The End