CHAPTER SEVEN
Zoe
The turtleneck was a mistake.
It seemed like a brilliant solution this morning when I was staring at my closet, wondering how to hide the marks in a professional setting. A black turtleneck. Classic. Sophisticated. Completely inappropriate for the unreasonably warm day.
I tug at the collar for the hundredth time, feeling sweat trickle down the back of my neck. The gallery’s climate control is usually perfect, but today it feels like we’re displaying art in a sauna.
“Are you feeling alright, Zoe? You look... feverish.”
I glance up from the catalog I’ve been pretending to read for the last twenty minutes to find Helen, my boss, studying me with narrowed eyes.
“I’m fine,” I say, tugging at the collar of the black turtleneck. “Just a little warm.”
“No wonder. It’s eighty degrees outside, and you’re dressed for December.” Helen taps a manicured nail against the catalog. “The Sparne collection isn’t going to catalog itself, you know.”
“Right. Sorry.” I force a smile. “Just distracted this morning.”
Helen raises a perfectly arched eyebrow. “Clearly.”
As she walks away, I resist the urge to fan myself, and reach for my phone instead. Four missed calls from unknown numbers.
My fingers drift to my neck, tracing the outline of the marks through the fabric. They don’t feel as angry today. Less hot to the touch, less raised. Maybe they’re already starting to fade? Maybe this whole nightmare was just one wild night that got blown out of proportion, and in a few days, I’ll be back to my normal, unclaimed beta life.
The thought should be comforting, but something small and traitorous in my chest twinges at the idea. I push the feeling away and focus on the catalog.
The Sparne collection is one of the most important acquisitions we’ve made this year. I should be thrilled to be working on this. Instead, I keep zoning out, lost in memories of four sets of hands, four mouths, four distinct scents wrapping around me like a cocoon...
“Ms. Clarke?” A soft voice pulls me from my inappropriate workplace daydream. “The Davelles are here for their tour.”
I blink at our receptionist, then check my watch. Shit. I completely forgot about the donor tour.Again.
“Thank you, Jade. Tell them I’ll be right there.”
I straighten my turtleneck, smooth my hair, and plaster on my most professional smile before heading to the gallery’s main entrance.
The Davelles are a power couple of the old-money variety. Margaret Davelle is a tiny omega with eyes that miss nothing and a diamond brooch that could probably fund a small nation. Her alpha, Arthur, is tall, stooped, and has the good sense to agree with whatever his omega says.
“Arthur, Margaret, so good to see you,” I greet them with a genuine smile.
“Zoe, dear, you look like you’re about to melt,” Margaret saysinstead of a hello, her sharp eyes zeroing in on my turtleneck. “Are you coming down with something?”
“Just a devotion to fall fashion,” I lie with a breezy laugh that I hope sounds natural. “Shall we?”
I lead them toward the new exhibition, launching into my well-rehearsed speech. The tour goes smoothly, with Margaret asking questions about the artist’s investment potential. Arthur remains quiet beside her, his gaze thoughtful, occasionally nodding or murmuring “Indeed,” in agreement with her statements.
We stop in front of the collection’s centerpiece, a spiral of bronze and glass that seems to change shape as you move around it. “Now this,” I begin, “is Sparne’s exploration of duality. The permanence of the bronze against the fragility of the?—”
I trail off. My skin prickles. A new scent has just entered the gallery, cutting through the sterile, climate-controlled air. Spicy, zesty, and so familiar it makes my stomach clench. Ginger.TristanfuckingSterling.
Margaret’s head tilts, her nose twitching. “My,” she murmurs, eyes scanning the room. “Is there another alpha patron here today? Someone... significant?”
My heart rate kicks up. I refuse to turn around. “I believe so,” I say, my voice onlyslightlystrained. “As I was saying, the fragility of the glass required the artist to?—”
“It’s well made,” Arthur Davelle says suddenly, his deep voice cutting through my spiel. He leans in, staring at the sculpture’s base. “Good bones. Margaret likes pieces with good bones.”
Margaret pats his arm, a small, satisfied smile on her face. “He’s right. I do.”
