“Absolutely not,” I say, crossing my arms over my chest. “That is a terrible offer, and we both know it.”
The collector opposite me, a man in his sixties with more money than taste, gives me a condescending smile. “My dear, I assure you, in the current market?—”
“In the current market,” I interrupt smoothly, “the piece is worth at least thirty percent more than what you’re offering. And that’s a conservative estimate.”
His smile falters. “The artist is relatively unknown?—”
“For now,” I counter. “But after her feature next month, and her upcoming installation? Her prices will only climb.” I lean in slightly, my voice dropping to a confidential tone. “You know it, I know it. The only question is whether you want to be ahead of the curve or behind it.”
A flash of grudging respect crosses his face. He studies me for a moment, taking in the confident set of my shoulders, the direct,unflinching way I meet his gaze. His eyes flicker briefly to my neck, to the four vivid, unmistakable claiming marks that stand out against my skin.
Six months ago, that look would have made me reach for a scarf, would have sent a flush of embarrassment up my neck. Now I just raise an eyebrow, daring him to comment.
He doesn’t. Instead, he names a new figure. One that’s still below what I want, but much closer.
I counter once more, and we settle on a number that makes us both happy. Or at least, makes me genuinely pleased and him begrudgingly satisfied, which in the art world counts as a win-win.
“A pleasure doing business with you, Ms. Clarke,” he says, extending his hand.
“Clarke-Sterling,” I correct automatically, shaking his hand with a firm grip. “And the pleasure is mutual.”
As he moves away to examine his new acquisition more closely, I allow myself a small, satisfied smile. Another sale for Clarke & Sterling Curatorial, and a significant one at that.
I feel a presence at my side and turn to find Rett watching me, a glass of champagne in each hand. His blue eyes are warm with a pride so naked it makes my breath hitch.
“That was impressive,” he says, handing me one of the glasses. “I thought he was going to walk away empty-handed.”
I take a sip of the champagne, savoring the crisp, dry taste. “He was never walking away. He just needed to feel like he’d put up a good fight.”
Rett’s mouth quirks in a small, private smile. “You’ve always been able to read people. But now...” His gaze drifts to my neck, to the marks there. “Now it’s like you have some kind of superpower.”
I laugh, the sound light and easy. “It’s not a superpower. It’s just...” I pause, considering. “Confidence, I guess. Knowing exactly where I stand.”
And I do know. After six months as the official, claimed betaof the Sterling pack, I know exactly who I am and where I belong. The insecurities, the doubts, the fears that used to plague me have faded to background noise, easily drowned out by the deep, steady hum of the bond that connects me to my alphas.
Rett’s eyes darken slightly, his gaze dropping to my lips. “You look stunning tonight,” he says, his voice a low rumble that sends a shiver down my spine. “That dress was a good choice.”
The dress in question is a deep, rich red that complements my skin and dark hair. It’s custom-made, with a neckline that dips low in the back and leaves my shoulders bare, putting my claiming marks on full display. It’s bold, confident, and utterly unapologetic.
“Tristan helped me pick it out,” I admit. “He said it would make a statement.”
Rett chuckles, the sound a warm rumble. “That sounds like Tristan. Speaking of...”
My gaze follows his to where Tristan stands, surrounded by a group of potential donors. He’s in his element, a glass of champagne in one hand, the other gesturing expressively as he speaks. I can’t hear what he’s saying from this distance, but whatever it is has his audience captivated, their faces alight with interest and amusement.
As if sensing our attention, he glances our way, his eyes finding mine across the crowded room. He gives me a slow, deliberate wink that sends a curl of heat through my belly, a silent promise for later.
“He’s good,” I murmur. “Really good.”
“Always has been,” Rett agrees. “But he’s different now. More focused. More...”
“Fulfilled,” I finish for him. “You all are.”
And it’s true. All four of my alphas have changed in subtle but significant ways since the claiming. The static is gone, of course. But it’s more than that. There’s a sense of completeness, of rightness, that radiates from each of them now.
My gaze drifts, finding Diego near the catering table. He’sengaged in what appears to be a passionate discussion with the head chef, his hands moving expressively as he makes some point about the canapes. But even as he speaks, his attention is partially elsewhere, his gaze regularly checking on a pair of twin babies in a stroller nearby.
Leah’s twins. They’re already showing signs of their mother’s indomitable personality. Diego has appointed himself their unofficial guardian whenever they’re in the gallery, ensuring they’re not overwhelmed by the noise or the crowd.
