Chapter 12 #2
His eyes flick to Zoe, who’s crouched near a shattered display case, her brow furrowed in concentration. “I see. Well, Mr. Sterling, this looks like a straightforward break-in. Nothing too fancy.”
“What was taken?” I ask, even though I already have a sinking feeling in my gut.
He checks his notebook. “The centerpiece of the exhibition. A bronze and glass piece worth about half a mil. A few other items too, but that was the big one.”
The Sparne centerpiece. The one Tristan said she was practically glowing over yesterday when she explained it to the Davelles, her eyes lighting up with pride. The one she was personally responsible for.
I glance at her again, crouched over the wreckage, her gloved hands tenderly inspecting a damaged sculpture. My jaw tightens. This wasn’t just a robbery. It was a direct, calculated hit. On her.
“Any leads?” I ask, keeping my voice calm even though I can feel the anger simmering just beneath the surface.
“Not yet,” Forbes says, his tone clipped. “Security footage was wiped. Alarm system was bypassed. Whoever did this knew exactly what they were doing.”
I nod, filing the information away. “When did the alarm go off?”
“7:48 PM. Patrol arrived at 7:56. Perps were gone by then.”
7:48 PM. Probably right when Zoe was walking into The Anchor to meet us.
My stomach drops, then twists into something darker. Protective. Possessive.
“Forbes,” Dane’s voice interrupts, cutting through the noise like a blade.
He’s back from his inspection, his expression grim.
“Front door was staged. They came in through the service entrance. Security system was a joke. Motion sensors were disabled, cameras disconnected. These guys knew the layout.”
Forbes raises an eyebrow. “And you figured all this out in what, five minutes?”
“Three,” Dane replies, deadpan. I hope Forbes knows Dane isn’t trying to brag; he just is that guy.
I leave him and Forbes to their exchange, my focus shifting to Zoe. She’s standing now, brushing dust off her skirt, her face carefully blank. Just like it was back at the Anchor. I’m beginning to realize it’s the face she uses when she doesn’t want to reveal just how much she’s feeling.
I cross the room to her, keeping my voice low. “How bad is it?”
She doesn’t meet my eyes, her gaze fixed on the damaged pieces.
“The Sparne centerpiece is gone. So are three from the Mosseau collection. And a Rahtrov from the back gallery.” Her tone is professional, but her voice wavers just enough for me to catch the raw edge beneath it.
“They didn’t just take them, Rett. They destroyed everything around them. Like they wanted to send a message.”
“What message?” I ask, my throat tight.
Her eyes finally meet mine, wide and troubled. “I don’t know.”
My chest tightens. “Were all the pieces from exhibitions you curated?”
She blinks, then nods slowly. “Yes. They left Helen’s collection untouched.” Her voice drops to a whisper. “You think this was about me?”
Before I can respond, Tristan sidles up, his usual smirk replaced with something close to actual concern. “Detective says they’re wrapping up for the night. Wants everyone out so forensics can finish.”
“Go ahead,” Zoe says, her voice tight. “I need to check my office anyway.”
“I’m coming with you,” I say immediately.
She rolls her eyes. “I’m not going to spontaneously combust if I walk ten feet on my own, Rett.”
I arch an eyebrow. “Humor me.”
Her office is a disaster. Drawers pulled out, papers everywhere, her desk a mess of chaos. She freezes in the doorway, and I can feel her distress spike, sharp and sour like a punch to the gut.
“They went through my desk,” she whispers, her voice trembling.
I place a hand on her shoulder, grounding her. “Don’t touch anything yet. Let me check the room first.”
It’s clear in seconds that we’re alone, but I take my time, triple-checking every corner. I don’t care if it’s overkill; the thought of her being in danger makes my alpha want to roar.
When I finally step aside, she moves to the desk. “They took my laptop,” she says tightly. “And the backup drive.” She pauses, her face paling. “They have my contact list. It has home addresses. Artists, donors—”
I step closer, my voice firm. “We’ll handle it. You’re not doing this alone.”
She turns to me, eyes meeting mine, and the challenge makes my alpha want to…purr?
“Why? Why are you doing this?”
I stare at her for a long moment, my chest tight with a thousand things I don’t know how to say. Finally, I settle on the truth. “You’re ours. Pack takes care of pack.”
She turns away, but not before I see her cheeks flush.
I’m turning to head back to the lead detective, ready to demand a full rundown, when my gaze locks with Dane’s on the gallery floor.
He doesn’t even speak loudly, and yet his voice has a quality that makes every head in the room turn.
“Rett.”
I meet his gaze across the gallery floor. He’s standing near one of the damaged paintings, his posture rigid, his eyes locked on something at the base of the frame.
He doesn’t need to say anything else. I see it in his expression. The cold, controlled fury of an alpha that has just caught the scent of a direct threat to his pack.
I cross the room, weaving through the scattered debris. Dane steps back just enough to let me see what he’s found, his jaw flexing in tightly reined anger.
It’s spray paint. A single word scrawled in red across the bottom corner of the frame, crude and ugly against the elegant brushstrokes above it.
BITCH.
The word hangs in the air, the sharpness of it cutting through the chaos of the gallery.
Behind me, there’s a sharp intake of breath. “My god,” Helen gasps, her hand flying to her mouth. “It must be one of my competitors. They’ve been trying to poach my clients for months! There are people in this city who would do anything to see this gallery fail. Anything!”
I look back at her briefly, but my focus shifts immediately to Zoe.
She’s standing a few feet away, her face pale, her arms crossed tightly over her chest as if she’s holding herself together. She doesn’t say anything, but I can feel the weight of her silence. The tension rolling off her in waves.
Dane’s gaze flicks to me, then to Zoe, then back to the spray paint. He doesn’t need to explain. None of us does.
We all know who this is really about.
“It wasn’t a robbery,” Dane says, his voice low and lethal. “It was a message.”
Helen looks between us, confusion etched on her face. “But—what does that mean? Who would—”
“It doesn’t matter,” I cut her off. My focus is locked on Zoe, who’s staring at the word like it’s burned into her vision.
I step closer to her, lowering my voice. “You’re not staying alone tonight.”
She blinks, finally looking up at me. “Rett, I can’t just—”
“It’s not up for debate.” My alpha is snarling, but I try to keep my tone gentle. “This wasn’t random, Zoe. They knew what they were doing, and they knew who they were targeting.”
Her throat bobs as she swallows hard, her eyes flicking back to the word on the painting. “You don’t know that,” she whispers, but there’s no conviction in her voice.
I step even closer, lowering my voice so only she can hear. “Yes. I do.”
For a moment, she looks like she’s about to argue. But then her shoulders sag, and she nods, her voice barely audible. “Okay. Just… just for tonight.”
Behind us, Diego, Tristan, and Dane are already there.
It’s instinct. Pack instinct.
And whoever decided to target her, whoever thought they could send a message like this, has no idea what they’ve just unleashed.