Page 17 of Accidentally Forever

I shake my head, pulse hammering, everything in me screaming to shut down, to keep moving, to get the fuck out of here. “It’s nothing,” I snap, the words coming out a little too sharp, tears threatening to surface. “Please—just enjoy the rest of the show.” I push my way through the crowd, throwing fake smiles and little head nods to keep the peace.

No one minds me because I’m just an employee as I swipe a few empty glasses and a plate. Someone asks me a question but I’m too lost in my head to answer. Whispers flit through the crowd, my attention snapping to the right ashisscent hits my nose. Puma is watching me, studying me just like Hawk had been. It’s unnerving the way he’s trying to dissect me but I shove the lump down in my throat and focus on getting through the next hour.

Five minutes left of my shift is the moment when everything goes to shit. Low murmurs, hushed voices bleeding into the air just behind me, just quiet enough to make me strain to listen.

“…fake painting…”

My hands keep moving, pretending to focus on the table, but my ears sharpen, my body locking into place as I listen.

“…stolen, I heard.”

Everything inside me goes still.

“…Ashford Pack might be tangled up in it.”

My grip tightens on the rag, fingers curling so tight the fabric twists under my palm.

A slow, heavy pulse beats through my skull as the words sink in. I should ignore it, should let it roll off me like all the other bullshit that floats through this place. But my mind latches onto the words like a damn vice, tightening with every second. Stolen. Fake.

The accusation digs in deep. Have I been selling stolen work? Have they been buying it? The thought is a slow poison, an infection spreading too fast. It doesn’t make sense. Every sale I’ve handled for them has been real, legit. I’ve never moved a piece that felt off. But I have seen things that didn’t sit right.

That one art piece from a few weeks ago. And then the one painting from yesterday. The wet paint. Like something wasn’t adding up, like there was a piece missing that no one wanted to say out loud.Fuck.

I’m staying out of it though as I rush the last bit of trash to the bin in the corner and then grab my bag from behind the counter, my pulse still hammering in my ears. Xavier is across the room, deep in conversation with a group of collectors, but I don’t care. I push toward him anyway, my patience already burned to nothing but ash. “I’m off,” I state.

He barely glances at me. “No, you’re not.”

“It’s 9 pm. Shift is over.”

Xavier turns, scowling, his mouth twisting like I’m something stuck to the bottom of his shoe. “And? You think that means you just get to—”

“I don’t care,” I cut him off, the last thread of restraint snapping clean in half. “I’m leaving.” I push through the front doors, stepping into the darkness, my only thought getting to Sofie and getting her home. I reserved one of those rooms for tomorrow but I’ll have to see if they have someone tonight. I’m not sure her heat will wait that long.

"Violet."

Puma is stalking toward me, dark eyes locked onto mine when I turn around, burning with something furious. He moves like a predator, his steps measured like he’s giving me a chance to explain myself before he rips me apart.

"You want to tell me why the fuck people are whispering about fake paintings in that gallery?"

I exhale hard through my nose, barely holding on to the last frayed edge of my patience. "I don’t know," I snap, my voice clipped, rough around the edges. "And right now? That is the least of my fucking priorities."

Puma’s gaze flickers, something shifting behind his eyes. He tilts his head just slightly, watching me like he knows I’m holding something back. "I’ve had my suspicions for a while," he mutters, more to himself than to me, jaw tightening. "But hearing it thrown around like gossip?" He shakes his head, dark eyes flashing. "That’s not a mistake. Someone planted that."

I dip my hand into my pocket and then shove a business card against his chest, and he catches it without looking away from me. "Call me tomorrow if you need to," I grind out, the weight of exhaustion dragging through my bones. "Right now, I need to take care of my Omega."

Something changes in his face. A small shift, barely noticeable, but I catch it. He frowns, his brows pulling together. "Your Omega?"

My jaw clenches so tight my teeth ache. "Yes," I bite out. "My Omega. Sofie, the girl from the front desk? I need to get her home." It feels wrong being so defiant to this Alpha as if some part of me wants to submit.

Puma goes still, the anger seeping from his expression until the softness feels like a complete 180. "Is she okay?"

The question hits me like a punch to the ribs which makes me laugh. A panicked response, sure but it’s all I have. A sharp, breathless thing that barely escapes my throat, bitter and humorless and soaked in exhaustion. "Why do you care?" I breathe, shaking my head, throwing my hands up because I don’t have it in me to pretend anymore. "Why the fuck do you care, Puma?"

"What?" My voice is raw, frayed at the edges. I’m too fucking tired for this.

Puma exhales, dragging a hand through his salt-and-pepper hair. "I shouldn’t have come at you like that," he says, voice lower now, steadier. "I’m sorry."

I blink, the anger still burning under my skin, still hot in my veins, but the unexpected softness in his words takes me off guard. I’ve seen Puma controlled. I’ve seen him calculated. I’ve seen him dangerous. But I’ve never seen him like this.

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