Chapter 12
CHAPTER TWELVE
Rett
The moment I hear Helen’s panicked voice through Zoe’s phone, something shifts inside me.
A switch flips in my brain. The restless, chaotic energy that’s been thrumming under my skin all night suddenly settles into a single, sharp point of focus.
It’s like my entire being has become a tuning fork, and the threat to Zoe is the only note I can hear.
Someone broke into Zoe’s gallery. Her territory. And in doing so, they just declared war on mine.
“You’re not going alone,” I tell Zoe, not bothering to disguise the command in my voice.
She opens her mouth like she’s about to argue, then seems to think better of it. Good.
“Fine,” she says, grabbing her jacket. “But you follow my lead. This is my workplace, not a Sterling Solutions security operation.”
I nod once, allowing myself a small smile at her assertion of control even now. “Of course.”
The second she turns for the door, the fragile calm shatters.
Diego is instantly at her side, his hand hovering at the small of her back.
Tristan is on her other side, his usual easy charm gone, replaced by a sharp, watchful intensity as his eyes scan the empty hallway.
Dane just falls into step behind the three of them, a silent, formidable shadow, his sheer size a deterrent to any unseen threat.
I’m the last one to move, my own alpha roaring in my chest.
“It’s probably just kids,” Zoe says as the elevator descends, her voice betraying more tension than her words suggest. “The gallery’s been hit before. They usually just grab whatever looks expensive and run.”
“When was the last break-in?” Dane asks, his voice deceptively casual.
“About eight months ago. They took a small sculpture and a painting from the back office.” She shrugs like it’s no big deal, but I catch the slight tremor in her hand as she brushes hair from her face.
My jaw tightens. Eight months ago, and the security hasn’t been upgraded? Unacceptable.
The elevator reaches the lobby, and I step out first, scanning the area before allowing the others to exit. Outside, the street is quiet, a stark contrast to the chaos waiting for us at the gallery.
“I’ll drive,” I say, already pulling out my phone to text our driver. “He’ll be here in two minutes. He was already in the neighborhood.”
“The gallery’s only fifteen blocks away,” Zoe protests. “It’ll be faster to just get a cab.”
“Fifteen blocks is too far to walk,” Diego says gently. “And cabs aren’t secure.”
She gives him a look. “Are we expecting sniper fire on the way to an art theft?”
Before I can answer, a black Mercedes SUV glides to a silent stop at the curb. Our driver steps out, his face impassive. He meets my eyes for a fraction of a second, and a silent understanding passes between us. He hands me the key fob without a word.
“Pick up the Audi from the Anchor.” I hand him the other key, and he nods before heading off without a word. He knows the protocol for a family emergency.
“We’re not expecting anything,” I say, turning to face our…mate. The word sends a possessive jolt through me. “Which is precisely why we prepare for everything.”
She stares at the waiting car, then back at me, a flicker of grudging respect in her eyes. “That... actually makes sense,” she mutters.
Dane opens the door, his eyes sweeping the street before nodding to Zoe. “After you.”
She slides in, and we follow, taking the same protective formation inside the vehicle.
I take the wheel, catching Zoe’s reflection in the rearview mirror.
She’s trying to appear calm, but there’s a tightness around her eyes, a tension in her shoulders.
This matters to her. The gallery isn’t just a job; it’s her place. Her sanctuary. And someone violated it.
Whoever did this will regret it. That’s not a threat; it’s a simple fact.
The drive is tense and silent. I keep one eye on the road ahead and one on Zoe in the mirror. She’s staring out the window, her expression locked in concentration. She’s mentally cataloging the collection, I realize. Preparing for what she might find, or not find, when we arrive.
My respect for her notches higher. In a crisis, she doesn’t panic. She prepares. It’s what I would do.
The gallery comes into view, its elegant facade now marred by the harsh flashing lights of police vehicles. Two patrol cars and an unmarked sedan are parked haphazardly out front, their lights painting the night in alternating blue and red.
Before the car even fully stops, I’m already assessing the scene. No ambulance, which confirms what Helen said about no one being hurt. A small crowd of onlookers has gathered behind the police tape, including what appears to be a local reporter with a cameraman. Great. Just what we need.
“Stay close,” I tell Zoe as Dane opens the door.
She nods, her professional mask sliding into place as she steps out. I follow, immediately taking position beside her. We move as a unit toward the police tape.
A uniformed officer steps forward to intercept us. “This is an active crime scene. You can’t—”
“She’s the assistant curator,” I interrupt. “These officers called her here.”
The officer hesitates, looking at Zoe for confirmation.
“Zoe Clarke,” she says, her voice steady despite the stress I can smell rolling off her in waves. “Helen Porter, the gallery director, is expecting me.”
The officer lifts the tape, allowing us through. “The detectives are inside with Ms. Porter.”
As we approach the gallery entrance, I can see the damage. The elegant glass doors that normally welcome patrons now hang askew, one of them shattered. Inside, the normally pristine white walls are marred by the chaotic movement of police officers and crime scene technicians.
Zoe falters for just a moment at the sight, and without thinking, I place my hand at the small of her back. I’m here. We’re here. You’re not facing this alone.
To my surprise, she doesn’t pull away. Instead, she draws a deep breath and squares her shoulders before stepping through the broken doorway.
The interior of the gallery is even worse than I expected. It’s not just the missing art, it’s the destruction. Display cases have been smashed, glass crunching underfoot as we enter. Smaller sculptures have been toppled, and what looks like red spray paint mars one of the far walls.
“Oh God,” Zoe breathes, her composure cracking slightly at the sight.
My arm instinctively slides around her waist, steadying her. “Where’s Helen?” I ask, scanning the room.
Zoe points to a small woman with platinum blonde hair who’s gesticulating wildly as she speaks to a plainclothes detective. “There.”
Before we can move in that direction, Helen spots us and rushes over, her face a mask of distress.
“Zoe! Thank God.” Helen’s hands are shaking. “The Sparne pieces! They took the centerpiece and damaged three others. And the Mosseau—” Her words cut off as she finally sees us. Her eyes widen. “You brought... company.”
“Helen, these are...” Zoe starts.
“The Sterling pack,” I say, extending a hand. “Everett Sterling.”
Helen’s hand comes up to shake mine on reflex, but her face has gone pale. Her gaze flicks from my face to Tristan’s, to Diego’s, to Dane’s. Then it lands on Zoe’s throat.
On the four fresh claiming marks.
Her jaw goes slack. All the air leaves her lungs in a silent rush.
“You...” she stammers, her eyes flicking between the marks on Zoe’s neck and my face. “She’s... you’re...” She seems to run out of words entirely, her mouth opening and closing silently like a fish.
A siren wails outside. Helen flinches, blinking hard. She looks from the broken window back to Zoe, her voice tight and too high.
“The police... they need the inventory lists. The values.” She won’t look at Zoe’s neck again. “I don’t have it. I just don’t.”
“Show me what’s missing,” Zoe says, her voice calm and solid. She straightens, and my arm, which is still wrapped around her waist, falls away as she steps past Helen, all business.
The instinct to pull her back, to keep her tucked safely against my side, is so strong I almost growl. My alpha hates this.
As Helen follows Zoe toward the main exhibition space, I catch my pack brothers’ eyes and give a slight nod. We’ve done this a hundred times before. Split up, handle different angles, and somehow make sense of the chaos.
Dane, predictably, beelines for the broken front door, crouching like some kind of brooding, tactical ninja to inspect the lock mechanism. Security is his thing, and he’s already muttering to himself about “incompetent alarm systems” and “rookie-level break-ins.”
Tristan, meanwhile, swaggers over to the plainclothes detective.
Swaggers. He’s all charm and lazy grins, the kind that make people spill their secrets without realizing they’re doing it.
“Hi, I’m Tristan Sterling,” I hear him say, his voice oozing honey.
“Mind if I ask a few questions? Just, you know, for my own peace of mind.”
God help us all.
Diego is already with Helen, radiating big golden retriever energy as he puts a comforting hand on her shoulder and murmurs soothing words. He can calm anyone down. Even a gallery director who looks seconds away from a full meltdown.
And me? I scan the room, looking for the guy in charge. It doesn’t take long to spot him: tall, grey-haired, with a face that says, “I’ve seen it all, and honestly, I’m tired.” He’s frowning at the defaced wall like it owes him an apology.
I stride over, trying to keep my pace confident but not too aggressive. “Detective?”
He turns, eyes widening slightly when he sees me. “Mr. Sterling? I didn’t expect to see you here.” He glances past me to the rest of the pack at their various positions in the gallery space.
I smile, offering my hand. “I’m here with Zoe Clarke, the assistant curator.”
His handshake is firm. “Detective Forbes.” He pauses. “I wasn’t aware the gallery was one of Sterling’s investments.”
“It isn’t.” I let the pause hang for a beat. “I’m with Ms. Clarke.”