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.
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.
