Page 33 of The Forgery Mate


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We reach what appears to be a solid wall, but Ezra’s fingers find an invisible seam, pushing in a familiar sequence.

Shock rushes through me as the panel slides open with a pneumatic hiss. “How did you?—”

He cuts me off with a sharp tug, pulling me into a narrow passage that smells of dust.

“Rockfords built this place a century ago,” he says as he guides me down a steep set of stairs. “Sold it in the thirties. Family archives still had the original plans.”

A shocked laugh escapes me. “What?”

He ignores the question, tugging me onward.

I stare at his broad back, my stomach coiling. “Did you evenneedme for this rescue mission?”

Again, my question goes unanswered.

The passage is tight, forcing us to descend single file, his hand never releasing mine. Our footsteps echo on the metal stairs, each step ringing like a bell announcing our presence to anyone who might be listening. The only light comes from small, rectangular windows cut at irregular intervals in the wall, offering glimpses of the main house as we spiral downward.

“Did Jade make it to the escape car?” I try again, my voice too loud in the confined space.

“Yes.”

We reach the bottom of the stairs, where another hidden door awaits. Ezra pauses to press his ear to the wood and listen. Tension radiates from his body, a coiled spring ready to attack. Whatever softness he showed in his bedroom this morning has been burned away, leaving someone harder and more elemental in its place.

“Clear.” He pushes the door open to reveal the night beyond.

We emerge into Halcyon Hall’s formal gardens, the space a meticulous recreation of European grandeur with symmetrical hedges and marble pathways. Moonlight spills across trimmed boxwoods and stone cherubs whose chubby faces grin at our escape.

The night air cuts through the fabric of my dress shirt, and I shiver as I inhale the scent of expensive flowers and freshly cut grass, clearing dust from my lungs.

Ezra doesn’t slow his pace, pulling me between shadow-draped topiaries and past a fountain whose water reflects silver in the moonlight. His fingers remain locked around my wrist, tight enough that I’ll wear a bracelet of bruises tomorrow.

When we reach a secluded corner of the garden, hidden from the house by a row of Italian cypress trees, he stops. The sudden halt of movement creates its own kind of vertigo, and I sway, my equilibrium adjusting to stillness.

Ezra releases my wrist only to grab my shoulders, spinning me to face him, and fury radiates from him in waves hot enough to scorch. “What the hell were you thinking, going in alone? Without backup?”

“You vanished without telling me anything,” I counter, rubbing my wrist where his fingers left their mark. “So I got Jade out. That was the plan.”

“The plan was for us to go in together.” His fingers dig into my shoulders. “Not for you to play hero and almost get yourself killed.”

“I wasn’t playing anything.” The words come out sharper than intended. “An opportunity presented itself, so I took it.”

Ezra’s nostrils flare, and his breathing comes out ragged. “Do you have any idea how close you came to being auctioned off, too? Those men weren’t taking you to security. That room was a processing center.”

The confirmation of my suspicion weakens my legs, but Ezra’s grip keeps me upright.

“I had it under control,” I lie.

“Like hell you did.” He steps closer, eliminating what little space remains between us. “You were walking straight into their trap. If I hadn’t followed you?—”

“I didn’t ask you to follow me.” Pride makes me reckless. “I’ve survived on my own for fifteen years.”

“Survived.” He spits the word. “Is that what you call it? Running from gallery to auction house, changing your name, your face, everything about yourself until nothing remains but the lies?”

Each word lands with devastating accuracy, and I try to step back, to put distance between us, but his grip remains unyielding. “You don’t know anything about my life.”

“I knoweverythingabout your life.” Ezra’s quiet hiss somehow carries more impact than a shout. “I’ve researched every detail, every alias, every forgery. Dug up information about your grandfather. The paintings. Everything I could find about the man who taught a child how to pick locks and forge signatures.”

My lungs forget how to draw breath. No one alive knows those details but me. “How?—”