I have a black clutch purse that belonged to my mother in one hand, and it’s just big enough for my phone and a couple of twenties. When I enter a stall in the marble and steel restroom, the door opens, a pair of sensible-sounding shoes padding on the floor.
I don’t actually have to pee, but I shoot a text to Thompson.
Strange woman here. Human. Be ready in case she’s a hunter.
I exit the stall to wash my hands, not bothering to act like I used the toilet. The woman is fixing her lipstick in the mirror, and her brand is the same as the twenty-five dollar one Freya gets from Sephora when she’s treating herself to new makeup.
“I love that shade,” I say, drying my hands on one of the little fabric towels. The woman looks at me, a tense smile coming across her face.
“Thank you,” she says, her voice slightly accented with a southern drawl.
Should I have a Boston accent? That’s where Steven said I was from, at least. I decide against it. I’ve already spoken, and I’m really bad at faking accents. At least I can fake cheeriness. Even that has taken the full week of practice, though.
“Your dress is lovely,” the woman says after a second of hesitation. She’s clearly not too used to small talk, or there’s something else going on. I never thought I’d be able to tell the difference between expensive and cheap fabric, but the silk dress on me is so clearly different from her cheap satin that it’s almost comical.
Why is a woman in a hundred dollar dress at an auction for high-dollar antiques? The vase I’d “lost” sold for four and a half million dollars, after all.
“It’s new,” I say, not skipping a beat.
Her smile cracks, and then she frowns. “You should probably get out of here. This place has to be too boring for a girl like you.”
I shake my head, the tendrils of my hair waving delicately in the air. “A girl like me?” The clueless act really seems to work on people, because the woman’s eyes widen a little.
“You just…don’t seem the type to be here is all.”
I don’t reply, instead just giving her the same placid smile I’ve been performing all night. She grabs my wrist, giving the barest glance to the stolen antiquity on my left hand. It really does just look like costume jewelry. The weight of it on my hand, though, proves how very real it is.
A shout comes from the other room, and I glance at the door.
“Stay here,” the woman says, gritting her teeth. She exits the restroom swiftly, and I don’t follow her order. Instead, I follow.
The auction room is in absolute chaos, people in full body armor with automatic weapons swarming the area. I glance around for Steven, but he’s absolutely nowhere in sight. He must have slipped out and assumed I did the same.
Most of the people here are already on their knees, and I find myself frozen in place, unsure of what to do when I watch the strange woman in the cheap dress draw a gun from her bosom. I want to ask which holster she has, because even I hadn’t noticed it there. Instead, I back against the wall and put on my best Holy shit what the hell is going on here I’m just a delicate woman face.
The whole thing takes moments, and several men and women are dragged away in handcuffs.
“Are you okay?” the woman, clearly a cop now that I know what’s going on, asks. I guess being medium height and having these stupid wide lashes has some sort of advantage to it. I nod, my mouth open in faux surprise.
“I was just here on a date,” I say, my voice trembling. “He said he was rich.”
All lies, but the woman seems to believe me. Good.
“Come outside,” she says. “We’ll get you a blanket and a ride home. But first, I’d like to ask you a few questions.” She doesn’t seem suspicious of me whatsoever, simply concerned. So long as I’m just some naive girl trying to hook a sugar daddy, that shouldn’t change.
She sits me on an elegant bench out the front entrance.
“Can I text my boyfriend to pick me up?” I ask. She seems a little surprised, but there are plenty of people all over who would cheat on a guy with a rich older man, so she just gives a little nod.
I pull out my phone and text Thompson. I’m okay. Tell Anderson to pick me up in his car. The old Toyota is totally unassuming, and if they check me out and go so far as the dress store, they’ll find that he was with me there, too. Gotta keep everything straight.
When I put my phone away, the lady cop sits beside me.
“What’s your name?” I ask, wrapping my arms around myself. My one leg is totally exposed, but my other conceals my gun pretty well. I’m glad I didn’t have to use it tonight.
“Detective Natasha Watson,” she says, sticking her hand out. I shake it awkwardly. When she looks away from me, her body seems to relax a bit. Apparently dealing with people isn’t her strong suit.
“I’m Eve,” I say. Mix in the truth with the lies.
Detective Watson stares at the police cars flashing their blue and red lights, and a few people with linen gloves walk out and set various antiquities in a white cargo van. I avoid clenching my right hand to conceal the ring on my finger.
“Who were you with tonight, Eve?” she asks.
I open my mouth, then close it, staring down at my lap. “He said his name was Alan?” Just like I knew it would, the uncertainty in my voice adds more concern and care to the detective’s expression. “Probably a fake name,” I mumble. “He didn’t even bother to make up a last name. Middle height, gray hair. Toupée.”
A moment after I finish that sentence, Anderson’s shitty car shows up. I recognize it past the barriers, and his dark figure is sitting in the driver’s seat, the flashing lights illuminating him red, then blue, and then back to red. My phone buzzes.
“That’s my boyfriend,” I say. The detective glances up, but she seems satisfied with the car. It’s probably exactly what she expected a gold digger to have.
“I’ll walk you over,” she says. I don’t argue, keeping my head low and my shoulders slumped. It’s not unlike how I had to act with Kenneth before I killed him. Unassuming, meek, and everything else you’d never suspect. She leans into Anderson’s window when I get in the car. “I need your number if I have any more questions,” she says. I spout off the number to her, and she gives me one last pitying look before waving us off, and I can finally breathe again.
“Holy shit,” Anderson says, his knuckles white on the steering wheel.
I fold my hands in my lap, but they tremble. “Yeah,” I breathe.
I didn’t even come close to selling the ring, and if I’m seen at one of these things again, I’ll go from a random victim to a prime suspect.
Chapter Thirteen
Anderson
For the millionth time in the past week, every instinct inside me is desperate to take Eve away from here. My parents knowingly put her in danger, and I’m not sure I’m willing to forgive them for that despite the fact that everyone is okay.
“Anderson, go to sleep,” Eve huffs, her arm tightening over my chest. Her expensive rental dress is hanging up on the back of the bedroom door, taunting me. I press a kiss to her temple. Thompson is on her other side, his back to both of us. He’s been totally nonchalant about the whole thing, but the stress rolling off him is practically a physical thing.
“It could’ve gone a lot worse,” I whisper. “This is all so dangerous.”
She places a gentle kiss to my bare chest, and her hand begins to trace little circles on my skin. “It didn’t, though,” she replies. “I’m fine. Your dad is fine. The cops didn’t suspect a thing.”
Thompson turns over, pressing Eve closer into me. This bed wasn’t made to fit so many people, but I do love how cozy it is with all of us. His hand goes over Eve to land on my hip, and Eve growls low.
“There has to be another way,” I say, but I’m quickly growing distracted by the way they’re both touching me. So it’s an ambush, then, is it?
I pull away from them. They’re not going to distract me that easily. I sit up and set my
feet on the floor, leaning over and breathing carefully.
“You guys aren’t listening to me,” I say, my hands shaking with frustration. “I feel like you never listen to my concerns.” Is it because I’m not as smart as them? Do they think I don’t understand what’s at stake?
Eve sits up, rubbing her hands over my back. “Anderson,” she says, her voice pained. “I know you’re worried. We all are. But we don’t have any other options. You’ve seen the paperwork, the debt. There’s nothing else we can do at this point.” After a brief pause, she says, “We need fifty grand by next weekend to keep the building. Even if I were to ask the pack for help, there wouldn’t be anywhere near enough.”
I suck in a breath. How the hell did everything get that bad? Why was Kenneth allowed to remain in charge for so long?
I’m not sure anyone really knew how awful of a leader he was. Despite taking over half the pack’s collective income, he’d come across confident enough that part of the pack believed in his leadership skills. No amount of scrutiny would convince them otherwise.
“What do we do?” I ask.
Eve leans her forehead against my back, her skin cold against my heat. “We try.”
A plan forms in my head at that moment. She may be thinking of a way to sell pieces to big-name people for huge amounts, but another idea comes to my mind.
“That necklace,” I say slowly. “How much did you say it was worth?”
She shakes her head. “If I can’t get rid of a fifty-thousand dollar ring, I can’t just sell an obviously stolen six million dollar necklace.”
I shake my head. “That’s not what I’m saying. Have you seen Oceans 8?”
A short laugh comes out of her, but then she realizes that I’m serious. “It’s a movie. That couldn’t possibly work.”
I shrug. “Maybe not. Or maybe it can.”
Thompson, still lying down on her other side, speaks up. “It’s worth a try. To save the pack.”
Eve sighs. “Fuck it. Why not? It’s not like we have any better ideas.”
Chapter Fourteen
Eve
As it turns out, Freya’s mother, the werewolf half of her parentage, used to be a jeweler in Estonia. It was eighty years ago, but she agrees to help us. She still has her tools, pieces that have been perfectly cared for despite traveling across wars and time.
“Thank you, Kaja,” I say, handing over the necklace with tender care.
She waves me off. “Anything for my daughter and her mate.” Despite being in America for nearly fifty years now, she still has a thick Estonian accent.
I cringe as she grows rough with the gems, breaking the gold brackets holding them in the necklace. She’s going to have to melt the gold down to create new pieces, all early-twentieth-century rather than the ancient piece it is now.
“I will be done tomorrow,” she says, her voice harsh despite her smile. There must be something satisfying about taking apart an old piece to create something new. “You go now.”
I take in a shaky breath, then pull something else out of my pocket. “Can you also do something with this?” She glances at the ring like it’s nothing, but I’ve somehow grown attached to it. I’ve never been the type to need a ring on my finger, but there’s something about people assuming I’m taken that’s been very pleasing to me.
“Of course, of course,” she says, tossing it on the table under her spotlight. She continues taking apart the necklace. “Come back tomorrow.”
As Freya and I are leaving, she says, “And you better bring my grandchildren to visit. I have not met the new one yet.”
Freya flinches a little, and I laugh, leading her out of the room. “We will, Kaja,” I say before closing the door behind us.
When we’re down the hall, Freya lets out a sigh of relief.
“Your mom is a bit terrifying,” I say. “I kind of get why I was so intimidated by you when we were kids.”
Freya lets out a little laugh. “You were intimidated by me?”
I guess I never told her that, although it felt obvious at the time. I put an arm around her shoulder and squeeze once before releasing her. “You were terrifying,” I reply. “You never smiled, and I never felt like you wanted me around.”
She shrugs. “I mean, I was older than you and you wanted to hang around.”
I laugh. “Neither of those things have changed.” She opens the door to the stairs for me, and I go in.
“I mean, you got hotter. That’s probably like ninety percent of it.”
“Gee, thanks,” I say. Before I can descend the stairs, though, she takes my arm and pulls me to her for a kiss. My back presses against the railing, and my hands find their way to her hips.
“You know I’m kidding,” she mumbles breathlessly into my lips. Then, she pulls away and gives me a little peck on the nose.
I let out the tiniest laugh, something I’m afraid may even be considered a giggle. What is she doing to me? I lace my fingers through hers, and I catch her smiling out of the corner of my eye before I descend the stairs ahead of her.
“Do you still miss your dad?” she asks when we’re almost to the bottom.
I tense up and look at her, but she isn’t facing me. Her eyes are distant, and I know instantly the question isn’t about me.
“It’s not your fault your dad left,” I say.
She shrugs. “I know, but…”
I chew my bottom lip, then finish her sentence for her. “You still miss him.”
She nods, leaning into me a little. She has so much on her shoulders all the time. When she first shifted at thirteen, her piece of shit dad left even though he’d claimed that having a werewolf for a girlfriend was fine. The rest of us think that he hoped his daughter wouldn’t be one, that he could leave with her. Kaja and Freya still haven’t healed from the betrayal.
“I miss my dad every day,” I say finally. “There are some times, though, where I don’t think of him, and at the end of the night when I realize it, I feel ridiculously guilty. Like I’m moving on when I shouldn’t be.” Freya presses herself even closer to my side, breathing in slowly like she’s taking in the fear and sadness in my scent. I haven’t talked to anyone about this, not since my dad died. Being vulnerable like this is terrifying, but it seems like it’s what Freya needs from me.
With a shuddering breath, she stands up straighter, and I watch as she wipes tears away. How had I not noticed that she started crying? My eyes are still perfectly dry, though, and for some reason, that makes me feel like a bit of an asshole. Shouldn’t this type of thing make me cry? I miss my dad more than I can express, but is it enough if I’m not crying over it?
“I didn’t mean to make you feel worse,” I say awkwardly.
She shakes her head. “No, it’s nice. I think I’ve needed a good cry for a while.” I can’t relate, but I don’t say that. “Thanks for opening up to me.”
I give her a weak smile, but now I’m just thinking about how I was basically an emotionless husk while she cried on my shoulder.
“We should probably get started on selling this jewelry,” I say. The tension in the room deflates, and I can breathe again.
Freya pulls away from me and puts her hair up, a sign that she’s shifting back into work mode. “Alright. What’s our next step?”
Chapter Fifteen
Eve
Just as I’m about to climb onto my motorcycle for a morning ride, an unfamiliar car with nearly black tinted windows pulls into the parking garage. I scent the air. A human. I don’t have any appointments with any of the humans the pack has worked with over the years, so I’m not really sure who it could be.
When she parks beside me and opens the driver door, though, I instantly recognize Detective Watson from the gala last night. Her hair is down around her shoulders, and she looks a lot more like a cop in the light of day. She’s wearing a pair of high-waisted mom jeans with a tank top, which is covered with a maroon leather jacket. Her badge is strapped to her hip, but she doesn’t appear to be a
rmed.
I, of all people, know that appearances can be deceiving.
“Ah, just the person I was looking for,” she says, eyeing me completely differently than she had last night. Despite her almost casual stance, she’s clearly tense and ready for anything.
“Detective Watson,” I say, giving her a nod. Should I keep up the dumb act? For some reason, I think she sees past it now.
She pulls a piece of paper from the inside pocket of her jacket. So that’s why she’s wearing it in the middle of a hundred-degree day. “Do you recognize this?” she asks.
I take the paper, finding a photo of an all-too-familiar green diamond ring on the front, a ring she definitely saw on my hand yesterday. I keep my face carefully composed, something I’ve been practicing for over a decade. “I’m not sure. Why?”
She frowns, taking the paper back. “A source has informed me that it, along with countless other treasures, was stolen from a compound in Tennessee last week.”
I widen my eyes. “Wow. That must suck for whoever legally collected those items.”
After tucking the paper back into her jacket, she mulls over my words. She clearly knows I had something to do with it. As long as she can’t prove it, though, it’s her word against mine.
“The ring you wore at the gala,” she says slowly. I grimace at her tone. She clearly knows I’m not the naive girl I pretended to be, and now she’s just talking like that to get on my nerves. “Where did you get it? And could I maybe take a look at it?”
I shrug apologetically. “I got it for five bucks at a thrift store. Threw it out when I got home because it turned my finger green.”
She’s clearly frustrated by me. “Maybe I’ll take a look at your trash.”
My eyes narrow. “The building’s trash was just collected this morning. Maybe you can intercept it at the dump?”
She stares at me, and my hackles rise as I stare back. I will not let her win this. It’s not just me at risk, after all.
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