Page 6 of Accidentally Forever

I grin. "Okay, mostly bullshit. But I do appreciate a woman who knows how to handle things."

She rolls her eyes, but her attention never strays, the corner of her mouth twitching like she’s fighting another smirk. "You flirting with me, Lance?"

"Wouldn’t dream of it," I say smoothly, even though we both know that’s a lie.

Her smirk lingers, but then her gaze flickers past us, shifting toward the front of the gallery, toward Sofie. She’s still at the desk, fingers fidgeting with the edge of an open ledger, her attention fixed on the pages but not really on them. There’s tension in the way she’s sitting, a sort of quiet restlessness that doesn’t match the bright warmth of how she greeted us earlier.

I don’t get long to dwell on it as Violet moves easily into the conversation, gesturing toward the newest collection with the kind of effortless confidence that makes it clear she knows her shit. “Most of these came in last week,” she says, stepping forward, falling into a rhythm. “Private sellers, some fresh from collectors who wanted to switch things up. A few from an estate sale upstate.”

My gaze drifts over the paintings, taking in the variation, the different styles, the way some seem to fitAsh & Ivory’susual aesthetic while others feel almost too refined for a place like this. Violet is always like this—vibrant, engaged, talking with just enough energy to make you feel like she actually gives a damn about the work. And maybe she does. Maybe this job is more than a paycheck, maybe she really believes in what she’s selling.

But she’s also fiercely protective of Sofie and that’s something I can’t ignore. Not many Betas are built that way, willing to put someone else before themselves and I admire that about her. Even if it makes her hard to read sometimes. She keeps talking, explaining the origins of a few more pieces, but I stop in front of one that sends shivers crawling down my spine. Not just because it’s famous. Because it shouldn’t be here.

The portrait is unmistakable, a dark aura, layers so thick with pigment it feels like the subject might shift beneath the weight of a stare. The artist—long dead—had been notorious for hoarding his own work, for refusing to let more than a handful of his pieces see the light of day. Most of them had ended up locked in private collections or secured in vaults where no one but the absurdly wealthy could get their hands on them. And yet, here it is.

Hawk hums, a near-silent sound that confirms he recognizes it too. There’s no fucking way that Xavier got his hands on a piece like this. I know he has connections but in this business, everyone knows everyone and there’s no damn way this is real. And if it is, I need to know what he did to get it because it couldn’t have been legal.

My fingers graze the edge of the frame, not quite touching, but close enough to feel the weight of the thing, close enough that I can almost hear the ghost of the artist’s brush against canvas. “This is an interesting piece for a place like Ash & Ivory to get their hands on,” I murmur, glancing at Violet.

She doesn’t react right away. Doesn’t perk up with that same enthusiasm she had when talking about the other works, doesn’t immediately launch into some spiel about its value or history.

She answers, sure. Tells me the name of the painting, the supposed details of how it got here, rattles off something about the previous owner. But her voice is different. Too even, too practiced, like she’s reading from a script instead of selling it. Something like this—something this rare—should have her practically buzzing, pushing it like it’s the crown jewel of the collection. A find like this doesn’t just appear in a small gallery. It should be headlining an auction, commanding a bidding war so absurd it makes headlines.

But she’s just… talking. Going through the motions. Answering because she has to, not because she wants to. Suspicion pricks at the edge of my thoughts, but I don’t let it show. Instead, I nod slowly, dragging my gaze over the piece one last time before saying, casually, “I’ll put in a bid.”

Her brows lift just slightly, and for a second—just a flicker—there’s something unsure in her expression. Then it’s gone, buried beneath that same smirk she always wears. “Big spender,” she teases.

I flash her a grin. “Always.”

Hawk doesn’t say anything, but I can feel his gaze burning into the side of my head, his silentwhat the fuck are you doing?pressing against the back of my skull. Violet takes down my information as I ignore my brother, waiting until we’re back in the car before acknowledging him.

“Why would you do that? That shit has to be a fake.”

“Because I want eyes on it. A bid will ensure I’m notified if someone else wants it as well. We both know it shouldn’t be at Ash & Ivory so I’m curious as to what Xavier is up to.” If it’s fake, we know that Xavier is just a greedy bastard. But if it’s real, I have questions. So. Many. Questions.

The rest of the drive back is tense, my mind wandering to Sofie’s impending heat. There’s no way Violet doesn’t know it’s just around the corner but my need to insert myself in their situation isn’t going away.

“Stop fucking thinking about it,” Hawk growls at me. “That’s not a road we can go down, not without the approval of Gray and Puma.”

I shake off the feeling, hoping I can forget it by dinner time. Unlikely. However, there’s a much bigger issue. Violet’s strained speech as she explained that painting worries me. I’ve dealt with enough sellers to know when something isn’t right. Desperate ones who will push anything for a quick buck, greedy ones who overvalue their stock, slick bastards who act like they’re doing you a favor by letting you spend a fortune. But reluctance? That’s rare. And that makes me curious.

The black gates swing open at our approach, sleek metal parting without hesitation, welcoming us home. The house itself is a mix of past and present—towering columns of old wealth wrapped in modern darkness, deep stone and reflective glass swallowing the night around it. It’s the kind of place that draws a reaction from everyone who sees it, whether that reaction is reverence or fear depends entirely on who’s standing at the gates.

Once inside, the scene that greets us is about as typical as it gets around here. Puma sits at the kitchen table, his gaze flicking over a stack of photographs, studying them with the same quiet intensity he gives everything. Gray is sprawled across his lap, legs draped carelessly over the chair, head tilted just enough to let Puma trail slow, absent-minded kisses along his jaw. The kind of contact that speaks of time, of ownership, of something settled.

They look almost like something out of a picture themselves, tattoos twisting up their arms—Puma’s speaking of a life well lived and Gray’s showing the torrent of chaos that always floods his mind.

Gray hums, holding up two pictures side by side. “Which one do you think works better as a centerpiece for the house I’m working on?”

Puma doesn’t answer right away, still focused on the slow drag of his lips against Gray’s skin, like he has all the time in the world. Hawk snorts, heading straight for the bar. “Are we interrupting?”

Gray smirks but doesn’t move. “Would it stop you?”

“Not even a little.” I drop into a chair across from them, stretching my legs out.

Puma lifts his gaze, dark eyes finding mine. We’re all Alphas but there’s a different aura Puma carries, almost like a presence that demands respect. He’s the head of our pack and our business, nearly ten years older than my thirty-seven years of life. The silver strands through his black hair speak of wisdom and knowledge I’ve only begun to curate. There’s also a mass of wealth his family built over a century, our pack reaping the benefits.

“How’d the visit go?” He asks, his voice rumbling through the room.

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