Page 9 of The Forgery Mate (Taken by His Alpha #6)
His words hit too close to a truth. Why did I come here? Was it just for Jade, or did I use his situation as an excuse to see Ezra again? To step back into the gravity of his presence despite the danger? Is my resolve to do what’s right by him so weak?
Aaiden rises from his chair, his movement signaling the end of the discussion. “The gallery event at Halcyon begins at eight tomorrow evening. You will take Ezra and lead him to Jade.”
It’s not a request. It’s not an order. It’s a statement of fact, delivered with the certainty of someone who holds all the cards.
I open my mouth to protest again, but the words die in my throat as I realize the futility. They have me cornered on all sides. The legal trap of the NDA. The emotional manipulation of Ezra’s presence. The ethical dilemma of Jade’s imprisonment.
If I walk out now, where would I go? How far could I run before they found me again?
Inevitability settles over me. I’ve spent fifteen years becoming whoever I needed to be to survive, to succeed, to remain free. Now, all those identities have collapsed into this singular moment of vulnerability.
My tongue feels thick, unwilling to form the words of agreement that might secure my temporary freedom.
Ezra stares at me with the patience of a man who’s spent a year in pursuit, a predator who has cornered his prey at last. When he steps closer, the floorboards don’t even have the decency to creak and warn me of his approach.
“Why are you hesitating when the alternative is a trip to the police station?” Ezra moves closer still, and his breath warms the shell of my ear. “They’ll put your fingerprints in the system.” The whisper sends a shiver of ice down my spine. “What do you think that would link you to, Nico ?”
The threat freezes my blood. Not a general warning, but a specific one, tailored to strike my greatest vulnerability. My breath catches in my throat, lungs forgetting their purpose as my mind races through the catalog of my past jobs.
The Vermeer recreation in Amsterdam. The substitute Monet in Chicago. The Degas bronzes I helped “acquire” for a private collector in Buenos Aires. Fifteen years of work, meticulous and untraceable, or so I believed.
How much is guesswork and how much fact?
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I manage, but the lie lands flat between us.
Ezra’s fingers brush my wrist, the fleeting contact sending electricity arcing through my skin. “Prison will take everything from you. Your freedom. Your dignity. But worst of all, it will take the beauty.”
I remember my grandfather in the prison infirmary, skin gray against white sheets, eyes sunken into a face once full of life.
The heart attack listed on his death certificate was accurate, but incomplete.
He died of isolation from beauty, of fluorescent lights and concrete walls, of a world reduced to right angles and institutional pastels.
I blink, forcing myself back to the present, to Aaiden’s study. “You know nothing about me.”
“I know enough to ensure you’ll cooperate.” Ezra’s fingers circle my wrist in a subtle shackle that reminds me of my vulnerability. “Or would you prefer to test my theory about what the police might find?”
My focus shifts to Sebastian and Aaiden, searching for some intervention, but their expressions remain impassive. This is Ezra’s show now, his hunter’s right to secure his prey.
The prison memories flood my senses in vivid detail. The chemical burn of industrial cleaners that never quite masked the underlying scent of human misery. The constant noise of shouting, metal doors clanging, the shuffle of institutionalized feet.
But worst of all, the motivational posters with their stock photos and empty platitudes, a mockery of inspiration taped to concrete walls.
My grandfather, once capable of recreating a Vermeer so perfectly that even experts hesitated, reduced to drawing with blunt pencils on cheap paper during sanctioned recreation time. The beauty bleeding out of him day by day until his face held nothing but resignation.
If I refuse, will the same fate find me? The threat of prison has always hovered at the edges of my profession, but now, with Ezra’s fingers on my wrist and my disguise in ruins, it’s suddenly, terrifyingly real.
“Fine.” My shoulders slump with resignation. “I’ll take you to Halcyon tomorrow. I…have an invitation that includes one guest.” It was my backup plan, if I couldn’t reach the Valenne tonight. “But I’ll need a wardrobe change.”
Sebastian nods once, approving the plan. “We’ll obtain everything you need.”
“And then I’m free to go,” I add, needing to establish some boundary, some control over this spiraling situation.
Aaiden’s expression tells me how unlikely that will be. “Let’s focus on recovering Jade first.”
Plans are made, roles assigned. I agree to everything.
Yet when I take a step toward the door, Ezra’s hand on my wrist tightens, unyielding. “Where do you think you’re going?”
I tense. “I need to prepare for tomorrow.”
“We’ll take care of everything.” His thumb brushes over my pulse point in a gesture so intimate it borders on obscene in front of the others. “For tonight, you and I have unfinished business.”
Sebastian clears his throat and turns away in a surprising show of discretion.
Aaiden’s expression remains unreadable as he turns to Ezra, dismissing me. “Keep him close. We can’t afford any cold feet before tomorrow.”
“Understood.” Ezra turns toward the door, pulling me with him. “Come, Knox. We’ll talk in my suite.”
My feet move before my brain processes the command, following Ezra across the study toward the door. Every step is an opportunity to pull away, to create a scene, to refuse this final indignity.
Yet I remain compliant, my body’s desire overriding everything else.
We cross the threshold into the hallway, leaving Aaiden and Sebastian behind.
Ezra leads me down the familiar corridor, his grip never loosening around my wrist. We pass the portrait gallery of Rockford ancestors, the side table where he once kissed me hard against the wall, and the window seat where we watched a storm shoulder to shoulder, lightning flashing through the sky.
I should pull away. Should fight. Should run. The logical side of my brain screams these commands, but I follow none of them.
As we turn the corner toward his suite, I catch my reflection in a gilt-framed mirror. My blond wig sits askew, makeup smeared across one cheek where he touched me earlier, and a mix of fear and feverish hunger brightens my eyes.
I barely recognize myself. But Ezra did. Ezra looked past every disguise, every lie, and saw someone worth hunting for a year.
The part of me focused on self-preservation recoils from this thought, recognizing the danger in being seen so completely.
But the part that remembers how he once looked at me as if I was everything keeps my feet moving forward down the corridor toward his suite and whatever reckoning awaits behind his door.