Page 62 of The Forgery Mate


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The smooth, cultured voice is one I’ve only heard before at the auction, and despite the fever, my blood freezes.

Harcourt.

“You look surprised to see me.” He steps farther into the open with the gun held steady in his hand. “Though I must say, this is the last place I expected to find you. It’s so…quaint.”

I take a step back, and my hip bumps a display table, the books on it tumbling to the floor with soft thuds. “What are you doing here? The shop is closed.”

Harcourt chuckles, the sound devoid of humor. “Yes, I can read the sign. But since you had no qualms about breaking intomyprivate rooms, I thought turnabout was fair play.”

My tongue feels too thick for my mouth, the heat climbing higher in my body, and I struggle to focus. I need to stall, to think, to find a way out of this. “I’m not Vescari. My name is Tobias Crane. I own this bookshop.”

“Drop the act.” Harcourt’s finger tightens on the trigger. “You’re good, I’ll give you that. But I’d recognize your face anywhere. You cost me two million dollars and my reputation in certain circles by freeing that Omega.”

My stomach swoops as I stumble deeper into the shop, moving between shelves to put books between us.

“It took some doing, but I tracked you from Halcyon Hall’s garden,” Harcourt continues, his footsteps measured as he follows me through the stacks. “You were sloppy.”

My mind races back to the auction. I’d been so rattled by Ezra that I skipped all my usual security protocols. I’d run straight to this shop, packed a bag, grabbed a new identity, and fled the country before I changed my mind about leaving him again.

The Heat surges, and my knees threaten to buckle. I brace myself against a bookshelf, my vision swimming at the edges. Of all the times for my body to betray me, it chooses now, when I need every ounce of focus and strength.

“How did you find me?” The question scratches past my dry throat.

“Had this place under surveillance for months.” Harcourt rounds the end of the aisle, the gun never wavering from my center mass. “After I connected Tobias Crane to Lorenzo Vescari, it was just a matter of waiting until you showed your face again.”

I stumble backward, putting the reference desk between us, grabbing a heavy-duty staple remover, but it shakes in my hand.

“I got reports of movement a month ago, but my people weren’t sure it was you.” Harcourt’s expensive shoes click on the hardwood floor as he circles the desk. “You should’ve kept the lights off, Vescari. You were doing so well.”

He must be talking about the day I opened the shop. The day Aaiden delivered the invitation to the Sanctum event.

“What do you want?” I ask, though I already know the answer. Men like Harcourt don’t track people down for pleasant reunions.

“The original plan was to put a bullet in your head.” Harcourt’s gaze slides to the titanium collar around my neck, then lower, taking in my flushed skin and trembling hands. “But now I see there’s a more profitable opportunity. You cost me thesale of an Omega, so it’s only right you to help me recoup the loss.”

Horror crawls up my spine, colder than ice despite the fire in my blood.

“You’re insane,” I spit as another wave of Heat crashes through me, buckling my knees. I catch myself on the edge of the desk, my breath coming in ragged gasps.

“I’m a businessman,” Harcourt corrects, moving closer. “And you’re a commodity. Far more valuable alive than dead.”

“Don’t touch me,” I warn, but my voice breaks on the last word, undermining any threat I might pose.

“And how are you going to stop me?” Harcourt crowds me, his expensive cologne mixing with the musty scent of old books. “You can barely stand.”

Through the fever haze, shame burns brighter than Heat. I got caught like an amateur, trapped by my own carelessness.

“The fever’s getting worse,” Harcourt observes with clinical detachment. “We should leave before you’re incapacitated.”

I try to swallow, but my mouth is desert-dry, my tongue sticking to the roof of my mouth. The reference desk digs into my lower back as I lean away from him, and I grip the edge so hard that the recently healed cuts on my knuckles split open, blood seeping warm and sticky between my fingers.

“You won’t get away with this,” I manage, the words scraping my throat raw. “People will notice I’m missing.”

Harcourt’s lips twitch in what might be amusement. “The reclusive bookshop owner known for disappearing for weeks, or even months, at a time? I doubt it.”

He studies me, head tilted, as if appraising merchandise. “That nape guard is titanium. Custom work. Expensive. Someone’s invested in keeping you.”

I remain silent, unwilling to speak Ezra’s name in this man’s presence. If he hasn’t figured out my connection to theRockfords, then the young Alpha who’s stolen my heart is still safe.