Chapter 57
FIFTY-SEVEN
A rtair realized too late what he was doing. The courtship dance was deeply significant in bear shifter culture—a declaration of serious intent. His bear had taken the lead without his conscious permission, expressing what his human side was still cautious about revealing.
Thora’s eyes widened slightly as she followed the unfamiliar pattern. “This isn’t a standard waltz.”
Heat crept up the back of his neck. “It’s a traditional bear clan dance,” he admitted, careful to keep his tone casual. “Muscle memory.”
Her amber gaze remained fixed on his, too perceptive for comfort. “Your heart rate just increased.”
“The music’s tempo picked up,” he lied smoothly, guiding her through another turn to scan the room. “Third pillar from the left. The man with the gray at his temples has been watching us for the past three minutes.”
She allowed the deflection, shifting seamlessly back to their mission. “The woman in emerald by the champagne fountain keeps touching her earpiece.”
“Good catch. I believe that’s Vivian Stark—expert thief specializing in magical artifacts.”
“And the man is?”
“Marcus Thornfield. Former security specialist, now freelance. His particular talent is disabling magical alarms.”
“Bingo.”
They continued their dance, exchanging observations about potential threats while maintaining their cover as an enamored couple. The ease of their partnership struck him—how naturally they communicated, how their different perspectives combined to create a more complete picture than either would achieve alone.
As they moved around the floor, he became increasingly aware of her body in relation to his—the warmth where his hand rested against her back, the subtle pressure of her fingers against his shoulder, the occasional brush of her thigh against his when they turned. Each point of contact felt magnified, sending pleasant warmth coursing through him.
Her scent had shifted subtly since they began dancing, notes of arousal threading through her natural aroma. The knowledge that she was physically affected by their proximity, despite her composed expression, sent satisfaction rumbling through his bear.
The music ended, and Artair reluctantly released her, though he kept her hand in his as they moved away from the dance floor. A server approached with a tray of champagne flutes, and he took two, handing one to Thora.
She raised an eyebrow. “I don’t drink on the job.”
“Neither do I,” he replied with a slight smile. “It’s sparkling water with a hint of elderflower. I arranged it in advance.”
Surprise flickered across her features, followed by something warmer that made his chest tighten. “You thought of everything.”
“Not everything.” He guided her toward a relatively quiet corner “But I try to anticipate needs where I can.”
The simple consideration—remembering her preference not to drink alcohol during a mission—seemed to affect her more than grand gestures might have. Another piece of information stored away: Thora valued thoughtfulness over extravagance, competence over showmanship.
His phone vibrated in his pocket. He checked the screen discreetly, his expression remaining neutral despite the alarming message.
Confirmed. Target is Maxen Black Diamond. Tonight.
Thora picked up on his tension immediately, her body subtly shifting closer to his in silent support. “What is it?” she asked, her voice low.
“We’ve confirmed the target,” he said quietly, leaning close as if whispering endearments. “The Maxen Black Diamond.”
“Tell me.” All business now, her eyes scanning the room with renewed purpose.
“Family heirloom, worth billions monetarily, but beyond measure to my clan. It’s been in the Maxen family for twelve generations.” He fought to keep his voice steady, though anger and worry churned beneath the surface. “The diamond is said to hold echoes of every bear shifter who’s worn it during important ceremonies. My father wore it at his mating ceremony. I wore it when I took leadership of the clan.”
Her hand found his, fingers intertwining in a gesture of support that seemed as natural as breathing. “Security measures?”
“State-of-the-art magical barriers, motion sensors, weight plates, and four shifter guards.” His jaw tightened. “But if it’s truly Calan, and he’s involved, he might know the bypass codes. We shared everything.”
“Timeline?”
He scanned the room again, noting the positions of Thornfield and Stark. “I’m guessing when everyone is distracted by the midnight champagne toast and fireworks display.”
Thora’s thumb traced small circles against the back of his hand, the gesture unconsciously soothing. “We’ll stop him.”
The simple conviction in her voice steadied him. This was more than professional competence speaking—she genuinely cared about preventing this loss because she understood what it meant to him. The realization warmed something deep in his chest.
Before he could respond, the crowd across the room shifted, and for a brief moment, he caught sight of a familiar profile. Though fifteen years had passed, he would recognize his twin anywhere. The same strong jawline, the same height and build—but Calan’s eyes held none of the warmth Artair remembered from childhood and his face now bore a jagged scar running from temple to jaw.
The disfigurement changed his brother’s look so much that he doubted anyone else would recognize the long-lost son. And since no one had freaked out yet, his assumption was probably correct.
The sight hit him like a physical blow. His bear howled within him, recognizing kin but also sensing threat. Family and enemy in one person—the duality tore at him.
Thora followed his gaze, her grip on his hand tightening. “Is that him?”
He nodded, unable to speak for a moment as memories flooded him—two little boys racing through the forest in partial bear form, climbing trees, whispering secrets in their private language.
And then... nothing. The empty years believing his brother dead, the guilt that had driven him to excel in every way, to be the perfect clan leader to honor the twin he thought he’d lost.
“He’s alive,” he finally whispered, his voice rough with emotion. “All this time...”
Thora shifted to block his line of sight, forcing him to focus on her instead of his brother. The unexpected kindness of the gesture—protecting him from public display of the emotions that threatened to overwhelm him—touched him deeply.
“Stay with me,” she said softly, her amber eyes holding his. “One problem at a time. We need a plan.”
Her steadiness anchored him, providing a focal point beyond the storm of his emotions. “If he recognizes me?—”
“He’ll recognize you,” she confirmed. “Twin bond. Can’t hide from it. So we use that.”
“How?”
“We need to isolate him before he can disappear. Corner him somewhere private.” Her eyes narrowed in thought. “The service corridor behind the eastern gallery. It’s narrow, controlled access points at both ends.”
The tactician in him approved of her strategy even as his emotions churned. “We’ll need to time it perfectly. If we alert him too soon?—”
“He’ll vanish,” she finished. “I’ve handled situations like this before. Follow my lead.”
Their eyes met, and a wordless understanding passed between them. She would take point on the interception, allowing him to focus on confronting his brother. The silent agreement required no discussion—they simply knew how to complement each other’s strengths.
This seamless partnership—how they filled in each other’s gaps, supported where the other might falter—struck him as rare and precious. They were stronger together than apart, not despite their differences, but because of them.
Moving casually, they circulated through the crowd, maintaining their cover while positioning themselves closer to the eastern gallery. Thora played her role flawlessly, laughing at appropriate moments, touching his arm with calculated intimacy. To anyone watching, they appeared to be nothing more than an affluent couple enjoying the gala.
As they approached the eastern gallery, Thora suddenly stiffened beside him. “Something’s wrong,” she murmured. “Thornfield and Stark have disappeared.”