Page 64 of Grin and Bear It

He scanned the room again, noting the positions of Thornfield and Stark. “I’m guessing when everyone is distracted by the midnight champagne toast and fireworks display.”

Thora’s thumb traced small circles against the back of his hand, the gesture unconsciously soothing. “We’ll stop him.”

The simple conviction in her voice steadied him. This was more than professional competence speaking—she genuinely cared about preventing this loss because she understood what it meant to him. The realization warmed something deep in his chest.

Before he could respond, the crowd across the room shifted, and for a brief moment, he caught sight of a familiar profile. Though fifteen years had passed, he would recognize his twin anywhere. The same strong jawline, the same height and build—but Calan’s eyes held none of the warmth Artair remembered from childhood and his face now bore a jagged scar running from temple to jaw.

The disfigurement changed his brother’s look so much that he doubted anyone else would recognize the long-lost son. And since no one had freaked out yet, his assumption was probably correct.

The sight hit him like a physical blow. His bear howled within him, recognizing kin but also sensing threat. Family and enemy in one person—the duality tore at him.

Thora followed his gaze, her grip on his hand tightening. “Is that him?”

He nodded, unable to speak for a moment as memories flooded him—two little boys racing through the forest in partial bear form, climbing trees, whispering secrets in their private language.

And then... nothing. The empty years believing his brother dead, the guilt that had driven him to excel in every way, to be the perfect clan leader to honor the twin he thought he’d lost.

“He’s alive,” he finally whispered, his voice rough with emotion. “All this time...”

Thora shifted to block his line of sight, forcing him to focus on her instead of his brother. The unexpected kindness of the gesture—protecting him from public display of the emotions that threatened to overwhelm him—touched him deeply.

“Stay with me,” she said softly, her amber eyes holding his. “One problem at a time. We need a plan.”

Her steadiness anchored him, providing a focal point beyond the storm of his emotions. “If he recognizes me?—”

“He’ll recognize you,” she confirmed. “Twin bond. Can’t hide from it. So we use that.”

“How?”

“We need to isolate him before he can disappear. Corner him somewhere private.” Her eyes narrowed in thought. “The service corridor behind the eastern gallery. It’s narrow, controlled access points at both ends.”

The tactician in him approved of her strategy even as his emotions churned. “We’ll need to time it perfectly. If we alert him too soon?—”

“He’ll vanish,” she finished. “I’ve handled situations like this before. Follow my lead.”

Their eyes met, and a wordless understanding passed between them. She would take point on the interception, allowing him to focus on confronting his brother. The silent agreement required no discussion—they simply knew how to complement each other’s strengths.

This seamless partnership—how they filled in each other’s gaps, supported where the other might falter—struck him as rare and precious. They were stronger together than apart, not despite their differences, but because of them.

Moving casually, they circulated through the crowd, maintaining their cover while positioning themselves closer tothe eastern gallery. Thora played her role flawlessly, laughing at appropriate moments, touching his arm with calculated intimacy. To anyone watching, they appeared to be nothing more than an affluent couple enjoying the gala.

As they approached the eastern gallery, Thora suddenly stiffened beside him. “Something’s wrong,” she murmured. “Thornfield and Stark have disappeared.”

FIFTY-EIGHT

Artair scanned the room, noting several absences among the faces he’d been tracking. “We need to move now.”

They slipped into the eastern gallery, a long room lined with Maxen family portraits and artifacts. At the far end, a discreet door led to the service corridor—and presumably, to Calan.

Before they reached it, Thora’s hand shot out, gripping his wrist. “Wait.”

Her sabertooth-enhanced senses had picked up something his hadn’t. “What is it?”

“Heartbeats. Multiple, outside the main doors. They’re waiting for us.”

The realization hit simultaneously—they’d walked into an ambush. The main gallery doors slammed shut behind them, and the service door ahead burst open. Six figures in black tactical gear poured in, armed with what appeared to be specialized weapons.

“Bear bane darts,” Artair growled, recognizing the silver-tipped projectiles. “They came prepared.”

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