Chapter 29 #2
Kind. It’s not a word I’ve ever associated with myself. But looking down at her, at the trust in her tear-filled eyes, I find that I want to be. For her.
Before I can respond, my phone buzzes. I check the screen, seeing a series of messages with attachments. “The information’s here.”
We spend the next hour going through it.
Rudy Lewis’s financials show a man deeply in debt, making increasingly desperate moves to maintain his lifestyle and art collection.
Cell phone records place him near the gallery on the night of the break-in.
And most damning of all, credit card records show a purchase of red spray paint at a hardware store two days before.
“It’s him,” Zoe says finally, her voice hollow. “It’s really him.”
I nod, already dialing Rett’s number. When he answers, I’m brief. “Rett, I got him.”
Rett’s response is immediate and equally terse. “Bring him in.”
“Not yet,” I say, watching Zoe’s face carefully. “I need to make sure the case is airtight. No mistakes.”
“Do it,” Rett says, and hangs up.
I set the phone down and turn my full attention to Zoe. She’s sitting on the edge of the desk, her shoulders slumped, looking smaller somehow. Defeated.
“I’m sorry,” I say, but the words feel inadequate.
She looks up, her eyes red-rimmed but dry. “Why are you sorry? You did your job. You found the person who vandalized the gallery.”
“Because he was your friend,” I say simply. “And now he’s not.”
A single tear escapes, sliding down her cheek. She wipes it away quickly, but another follows. “I feel so stupid. All those conversations, all that time... and he was just... what? Obsessed with me? Waiting for a chance to own me like one of his paintings?”
I move closer, giving her space to retreat if she wants. She doesn’t. Instead, she looks up at me with such raw vulnerability that something in my chest cracks open.
“Not everyone sees people as possessions,” I tell her quietly.
“Don’t they?” she asks, a bitter edge to her voice. “Isn’t that what the claiming was? A way to possess me so you could silence your static problem?”
The question is like a knife between my ribs. Is that what she thinks? That we see her as a thing to be owned?
“No,” I say firmly. “That’s not what it was.”
“Then what was it?” she challenges, her eyes flashing with a sudden anger that’s better than her earlier despair. “Because from where I’m standing, it looks a lot like four alphas deciding they could just... take what they wanted.”
I take a deep breath, weighing my words carefully. I’ve never been good at this. At explaining feelings. At navigating the complex landscape of emotion. But for her, I need to try.
“The claiming,” I say slowly, “was... instinctive. Wrong in how we did it, yes. But not in its intent.”
“And what was the intent?” she asks, her voice softening.
“To protect. To care for. To...” I hesitate, searching for the right word. “To make sure you were safe. With us.”
The words hang in the air between us. Zoe’s eyes widen slightly, the anger fading.
“Oh,” she says softly. And then, with a small, broken sound, she leans into my touch.
“I’ve got you,” I murmur against her hair.
She nods against my chest, her hands fisting in my shirt like she’s afraid I’ll let go. “I know,” she whispers back.
We stay like that for a long moment, her breathing gradually slowing, synchronizing with mine.
“Can we...” she starts, then stops, her voice small against my chest. “Can we go somewhere else? I don’t want to look at all this anymore.”
I glance at the evidence wall, at the damning proof of Rudy Lewis’s betrayal spread across the desk. “Of course.”
Without a word, I slide one arm under her knees and the other around her back, lifting her into my arms. She’s impossibly light, a fragile weight against my chest. She lets out a small, surprised gasp, her arms instinctively coming up to loop around my neck.
“Dane,” she whispers, her face buried against my shoulder. “You don’t have to...”
“Yes,” I say, my voice a low, rough rumble. “I do.”
I carry her out of the office, my hand at the back of her head, shielding her face from the sight of the evidence board as we pass. I walk in silence through the penthouse, past the kitchen where we had our coffee standoff this morning, and down the hall.
I don’t take her to her guest suite. I take her to mine.
I nudge my bedroom door open with my foot and carry her inside. The room is simple. A king-sized bed with dark blue sheets. A dresser. No clutter. Just the essentials. I gently lower her onto the bed, her body sinking into the soft mattress.
I move to pull away, but her hands are still fisted in my shirt, holding me there.
“Stay,” she whispers, her eyes, still wet with unshed tears, pleading with me. “Please. I don’t want to be alone right now.”
I nod, my throat too tight for words, and move to sit on the edge of the bed. She surprises me, shifting closer until our thighs are touching.
“Is this okay?” she asks, her voice small and fragile.
“Yes,” I manage to say, but the word is a rough scrape of sound.
She takes a shuddering breath, then another. “He was my friend,” she whispers, her gaze unfocused, staring at the wall. “Rudy. He used to bring me coffee on rainy days.”
The level of betrayal she must be feeling makes my alpha snarl with a silent, protective rage. I want to hunt him down. I want to tear him apart for making her feel this way.
Instead, I just sit there, a silent, useless wall of muscle.
“I feel so stupid,” she continues, a tear finally escaping and tracing a path down her cheek. “He warned me about you guys. About ‘collectors.’ And I... I almost believed him.”
My hand moves before I can think, my thumb coming up to gently, clumsily, wipe the tear from her skin. The salt and the warmth of her are a jolt to my system.
She leans into my touch, her eyes fluttering closed. “You’re not like him,” she murmurs. “You’re... quiet.”
I almost laugh. Quiet. It’s the thing I’ve always hated about myself, the thing that sets me apart from my brothers. But the way she says it... It’s not an accusation. It’s a comfort.
“You should rest,” I whisper.
She nods against my hand but doesn’t pull away. Instead, she shifts, curling her legs up onto the bed. “Will you... Will you stay with me?” she asks, her voice barely a whisper. “Just for a little while?”
A wave of bone-deep relief crashes over me. Because the truth is, I don’t think my alpha would have let me leave this room anyway. The thought of walking out that door, of putting any distance between us while she’s this fragile, is physically impossible.
“Yeah,” I say. “I’ll stay.”
I lie down on the bed, my back against the headboard, and gently pull her against my chest. She comes willingly, a soft sigh escaping her as she settles in, her head tucked perfectly under my chin.
My arm comes around her, holding her close, and it feels.
.. right. More right than anything has ever felt.
I begin to stroke her hair, the silken strands soft against my fingers. We lie in a comfortable, healing silence for a long time, the only sound the steady, synchronized rhythm of our breathing.
It’s her who breaks it, her voice a soft, muffled murmur against my shirt.
“Is it... is it quiet now?” she asks, her voice small. “For you?”
I know what she’s really asking.
“Yes,” I say simply. “When you’re close like this...it’s quiet.”
I feel her relax a fraction of an inch against me, a small, almost imperceptible release of tension.
“That’s... that’s good,” she whispers. “I’m glad I can help.”
The words are so simple, so sincere, so focused on us and not herself, that something in my chest tightens. This isn’t a transaction for her. It’s an act of care.
And my response, when it comes, is a pure, unfiltered instinct.
“Zoe,” I say, my voice a low, rough rumble against her ear. “You don’t just ‘help.’ You’re the only thing that works.”
She makes a small, contented sound and snuggles closer, her breathing already starting to even out. Just before she drifts off, she stirs one last time.
“Dane?”
“Hmm?”
“Thank you,” she whispers.
I just hold her tighter, the single word “always” a silent promise in my own head.
She’s asleep in minutes. I continue stroking her hair, staring at the ceiling, my mind a quiet, peaceful blank.
The bond may have forced us together. The static may have been the reason.
But this? This feeling of her, safe and asleep in my arms?
This is a choice.
And it’s one I’m not sure I’m ready to let go of.