Chapter 29
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Dane
She’s coming. I can hear her footsteps down the hall, the subtle change in the air as her cherry blossom fragrance precedes her. Her steps are hesitant, pausing occasionally like she’s second-guessing herself.
I don’t look up from the evidence board I’ve created on the wall of the east wing office. Weeks of investigation data mapped out in a web of red string, photos, and handwritten notes. I’ve been staring at it for hours, looking for the connection I know is there but can’t quite see.
The footsteps stop outside the door. There’s a soft intake of breath, then a light knock.
“Come in,” I say, still not turning around.
The door opens, and Zoe’s scent fills the room, a breath of fresh air in the stale confines of my temporary command center. I can feel her presence at my back, a warmth that seems to radiate even from several feet away.
“Wow,” she says softly.
Now I turn. She’s standing in the doorway, wearing a simple blue sundress that makes her look so soft. Her hair is pulled back in those little ponytails she likes to wear, a few strands escaping to frame her face.
Beautiful. The thought comes without input, and I don’t bother to push it away.
“Got bored with reading?” I ask instead.
She smiles, a small, hesitant thing that does strange things to my chest. “Something like that.” She steps fully into the room, her eyes widening as she takes in the full scope of my investigation. “This is... intense.”
I just nod. I’ve never been good with words. The fact that her presence is making my head clearer rather than foggier is both a relief and a distraction of its own kind.
“You said you could use another set of eyes?” she prompts when I don’t elaborate.
I nod again, gesturing to the board. “There’s a connection I’m missing.”
She moves closer, standing beside me now, close enough that if I move just an inch, I’d brush her arm. Her gaze moves across the board, taking in each piece of evidence, each connection I’ve drawn.
“What are we looking at exactly?” she asks.
“Everything,” I say. “Gallery clients from the past five years. Rejected artists. Competitors. Enemies of the Sterling pack. Anyone with a grudge against you or us.”
Her eyes widen slightly at the scope. “That’s... a lot of ground to cover.”
“Yes.”
She studies the board for another moment, then turns to me, her expression thoughtful. “Where should I start?”
Something in my chest loosens at her willingness to help, at the lack of hesitation or fear in her eyes. Most people find my focus unnerving. She just seems... curious.
“Client records,” I say, pointing to a stack of files on the desk. “I’m looking for anyone who might have a personal connection to the damaged artwork.”
She nods, moving to the desk and picking up the first file. “I know most of these people,” she says, flipping through the pages. “At least by reputation.”
“That’s why I wanted your help,” I admit. “You see patterns I might miss.”
She looks up, surprise flickering across her face. “That’s... unusually humble for an alpha.”
I shrug. “Facts are facts. You know art. I know security threats. Together, we’re more efficient.”
A small smile tugs at the corner of her mouth. “When you put it that way, how could I resist?”
For the next few hours, we work in silence. I’m deep in financial records, but my attention is split. Ninety percent of it is on her.
I watch from the corner of my eye as she goes through each file. Her brow furrows slightly when she’s concentrating, and she has a habit of biting her lower lip, catching it between her teeth.
That one simple gesture, that innocent little bite... It’s enough to set my entire body on fire.
My mind flashes back to last night. To the sounds I heard.
I heard her door open. I heard Rett’s low, guttural growl. And then I heard her.
The soft, broken moans. The sharp, breathless gasps. The shattered cry of her release.
And now, watching her bite her lip, I can’t stop picturing it.
Her, laid out on the bed, her long legs wrapped around Rett’s waist. Her face flushed, her eyes dazed with pleasure.
I can almost see it. The sight of our alpha’s thick, hard cock stretching her, filling her, claiming her in a way the rest of us have been dreaming to do again.
The thought of his knot buried deep inside her makes my own cock jerk, a hard, painful ache in my pants.
Ours.
The word is a possessive snarl in my own head. She’s ours. Which means her pleasure with Rett is a victory for the pack. This should be a good thing.
So why does it feel like a hot knife twisting in my gut?
“You’re staring,” she says without looking up from her file.
I don’t deny it. “You’re interesting to watch.”
Now she does look up, a faint blush coloring her cheeks. “Am I?”
“Yes,” I say simply. “Most people can’t maintain focus for more than twenty minutes. You’ve been working for almost three hours without a break.”
She blinks, glancing at the clock on the wall with surprise. “Oh. I didn’t realize.”
“You get lost in it,” I observe. “The work.”
She nods, a small, genuine smile touching her lips. “I always have. My mother used to say I’d forget my own name if I got too deep into a project.”
“It’s a good quality,” I tell her. “Rare.”
The blush deepens, and she looks away, back to the files. But there’s a new tension in her shoulders, a heightened awareness.
I move to the small kitchenette in the corner of the room, filling two glasses with water. When I return, I place one silently beside her.
“Thank you,” she says, taking a sip. Our fingers brush as she takes the glass, and I resist the urge to take her hand in mine.
I step back, putting some distance between us. Now is not the time.
“Let’s keep working,” I say, more to myself than to her.
She nods, turning back to the files with a determination that matches my own.
Another hour passes. I’m still deep in financial records, tracking suspicious money movements around the time of the break-in, when I hear her gasp.
“Wait a minute,” she says, her voice suddenly tense.
I look up to find her staring at a spread of photos. All the damaged artwork from the gallery. She’s placed them in a row, her fingers tracing connections I can’t see.
“What is it?”
“All of these pieces,” she says slowly, “Rudy tried to buy them last year.”
The name clicks instantly in my mental database. “Rudy Lewis. Beta art collector. Known for his aggressive acquisition strategies and vindictive responses to rejection.”
She nods, her face pale. “He was…a bit angry when the gallery outbid him. I remember because I was there when Helen told him we wouldn’t sell.” She shakes her head. “But it can’t be him.”
“Why not?” I ask, already reaching for my phone.
“Because...” She hesitates, and I can see her struggling with something. “Because Rudy has always been someone I looked up to. A beta who plays with alphas and wins. He’s respected in the art community.” Her voice drops. “He’s my friend. He stops by the gallery often just to chat with me.”
I watch her face, watching her see the pieces click in place and struggle with them.
“He even...” she continues, her voice barely a whisper now, “he even warned me about you. About the Sterling pack.”
That cements it for me. “Maybe his interest in you wasn’t always simply professional.”
She goes utterly still, her eyes wide with shock. “What are you saying?”
“I’m saying,” I tell her carefully, “that a man who coveted artwork enough to threaten the gallery might also covet other things that aren’t for sale.”
Her face drains of color. “That’s... that can’t be right.”
But I can see in her eyes that she’s already putting it together. The visits to the gallery. The warnings about us. The personal nature of the attack, focused on her office, her exhibitions.
“I need to make a call,” I say, already dialing. When it connects, I’m brief. “I need everything on Rudy Lewis. Financials, phone records, recent movements. Priority one.”
I hang up and find Zoe still standing there, arms wrapped around herself like she’s cold despite the warmth of the room.
“It might not be him,” I say, softening my tone. “We’ll know soon.”
She nods, but doesn’t look convinced. “I just... I thought he was my friend.”
The vulnerability in her voice, the way she’s trying so hard to be strong, makes something in my chest clench.
Before I can think, before I can second-guess, I close the distance between us and just..
. pull her in. My arms come around her, one hand spreading wide across her back, the other settling at the nape of her neck, gently urging her head to rest against my chest.
She freezes for a second, a sharp, surprised intake of breath. Her body is stiff, resistant. I expect her to push me away, to tell me to back off.
But she doesn’t.
Instead, after a long, tense moment, I feel it. A slow, shuddering exhale. The rigid line of her spine softens, and she just... melts against me. Her hands come up to rest hesitantly on my chest.
We stand like that for a long moment in the quiet of the case room. Just her, tucked against me, my chin resting on the top of her head. I can feel the frantic, unsteady beat of her heart against my ribs. My scent blooms, surrounding her and flooding the room with peppermint like some shield.
“People aren’t always what they seem,” I say, my voice a low, rough murmur against her hair.
I feel her nod against my chest. Her voice is muffled by my shirt when she speaks. “Even alphas?”
“Especially alphas,” I confirm.
She’s quiet for another beat, then she pulls back just enough to look up at me, her brown eyes wet with unshed tears. “You’re not what I expected.”
“What did you expect?” I ask, my thumb unconsciously stroking the soft skin at her nape.
A ghost of a smile touches her lips. “I don’t know. Someone more... intimidating. Less...” She gestures vaguely.
“Less what?”
“Kind,” she finishes softly.