Diego is instantly at her side, his hand hovering at the smallof her back. Tristan is on her other side, his usual easy charm gone, replaced by a sharp, watchful intensity as his eyes scan the empty hallway. Dane just falls into step behind the three of them, a silent, formidable shadow, his sheer size a deterrent to any unseen threat.
I’m the last one to move, my own alpha roaring in my chest.
“It’s probably just kids,” Zoe says as the elevator descends, her voice betraying more tension than her words suggest. “The gallery’s been hit before. They usually just grab whatever looks expensive and run.”
“When was the last break-in?” Dane asks, his voice deceptively casual.
“About eight months ago. They took a small sculpture and a painting from the back office.” She shrugs like it’s no big deal, but I catch the slight tremor in her hand as she brushes hair from her face.
My jaw tightens. Eight months ago, and the security hasn’t been upgraded? Unacceptable.
The elevator reaches the lobby, and I step out first, scanning the area before allowing the others to exit. Outside, the street is quiet, a stark contrast to the chaos waiting for us at the gallery.
“I’ll drive,” I say, already pulling out my phone to text our driver. “He’ll be here in two minutes. He was already in the neighborhood.”
“The gallery’s only fifteen blocks away,” Zoe protests. “It’ll be faster to just get a cab.”
“Fifteen blocks is too far to walk,” Diego says gently. “And cabs aren’t secure.”
She gives him a look. “Are we expecting sniper fire on the way to an art theft?”
Before I can answer, a black Mercedes SUV glides to a silent stop at the curb. Our driver steps out, his face impassive. He meets my eyes for a fraction of a second, and a silent understanding passes between us. He hands me the key fob without a word.
“Pick up the Audi from the Anchor.” I hand him the other key, and he nods before heading off without a word. He knows the protocol for a family emergency.
“We’re not expecting anything,” I say, turning to face our…mate. The word sends a possessive jolt through me. “Which is precisely why we prepare for everything.”
She stares at the waiting car, then back at me, a flicker of grudging respect in her eyes. “That... actually makes sense,” she mutters.
Dane opens the door, his eyes sweeping the street before nodding to Zoe. “After you.”
She slides in, and we follow, taking the same protective formation inside the vehicle. I take the wheel, catching Zoe’s reflection in the rearview mirror. She’s trying to appear calm, but there’s a tightness around her eyes, a tension in her shoulders. This matters to her. The gallery isn’t just a job; it’s her place. Her sanctuary. And someone violated it.
Whoever did this will regret it. That’s not a threat; it’s a simple fact.
The drive is tense and silent. I keep one eye on the road ahead and one on Zoe in the mirror. She’s staring out the window, her expression locked in concentration. She’s mentally cataloging the collection, I realize. Preparing for what she might find, or not find, when we arrive.
My respect for her notches higher. In a crisis, she doesn’t panic. She prepares. It’s what I would do.
The gallery comes into view, its elegant facade now marred by the harsh flashing lights of police vehicles. Two patrol cars and an unmarked sedan are parked haphazardly out front, their lights painting the night in alternating blue and red.
Before the car even fully stops, I’m already assessing the scene. No ambulance, which confirms what Helen said about no one being hurt. A small crowd of onlookers has gathered behind the police tape, including what appears to be a local reporter with a cameraman. Great. Just what we need.
“Stay close,” I tell Zoe as Dane opens the door.
She nods, her professional mask sliding into place as she steps out. I follow, immediately taking position beside her. We move as a unit toward the police tape.
A uniformed officer steps forward to intercept us. “This is an active crime scene. You can’t?—”
“She’s the assistant curator,” I interrupt. “These officers called her here.”
The officer hesitates, looking at Zoe for confirmation.
“Zoe Clarke,” she says, her voice steady despite the stress I can smell rolling off her in waves. “Helen Porter, the gallery director, is expecting me.”
The officer lifts the tape, allowing us through. “The detectives are inside with Ms. Porter.”
As we approach the gallery entrance, I can see the damage. The elegant glass doors that normally welcome patrons now hang askew, one of them shattered. Inside, the normally pristine white walls are marred by the chaotic movement of police officers and crime scene technicians.
