Page 11 of Accidentally Forever

It's mesmerizing to watch him, the desire to have him watch me like that a gnawing feeling in the back of my mind. I keep my pace beside him, answering his occasional questions, the deep baritone of his voice thrumming through me. I’m going to make a fool of myself soon, heat building in my belly as I try to keep my voice steady.

Because then, Puma stops. Right in front of the same painting the twins had been so damn interested in yesterday. A stillness settles over him, a shift so small most people wouldn’t even notice it, but I do. The way his frown deepens just slightly, the way his jaw tightens in a way that’s nearly imperceptible, like something isn’t sitting right with him.

Did he see it? Did he notice the same thing I did?

My pulse picks up, but I force myself to stay still, to keep my expression neutral. I don’t know enough to point out what’s wrong with the piece and saying the wrong thing—sayinganything—could put me in a position I don’t want to be in. So, I do what I’ve gotten good at. I keep my mouth shut.

Puma steps closer, hands still clasped behind his back, his head tilting just slightly as his eyes trace over the canvas. The careful scrutiny of a man who knows art, who has spent years curating his own collection, who can likely tell at a glance when something isn’t right. Then, casually, almost like an afterthought, he murmurs, “I’m pretty sure I have one of these pieces in my collection.”

My breath catches.

“Finding another,” he continues, his tone almost a test to my control, “is such a rare opportunity.”

A cold prickle works its way down my spine. That isn’t just an observation. That’s a statement. One that means this paintingshouldn’t be here.Do I tell him? Do I mention the way the paint smudged beneath my fingers, the way it had still been wet when I touched it?

For the sake of keeping my job and providing for Sofie, I can’t say anything. The answer settles quickly in my gut, pressing down on any instinct that tells me otherwise. I have a job to do. This is just another sale. Just another day. Even if everything about this—lying to Puma—is telling me to give him the truth.

Puma hums, as if to himself, then finally glances at me, something I can’t decipher still lingering in his gaze. “Any offers on it?”

Relief flares at the shift in conversation. I nod, seizing the opportunity, already moving toward the kiosk. “I can check the log.” My fingers move quickly over the keyboard, scrolling through the file until I find the painting’s listing. I skim over the details, letting out a breath as I focus on something normal. “Three bids since yesterday afternoon,” I say, pointing to the screen. It seems Lance wasn’t the only one interested in it.

A second passes before I realize he’s stepped in behind me. The shift in air is immediate, the warmth of him pressing up against my back pulling a gasp from my lips. He’s not exactly touching me, but it doesn’t matter—his presence is enough, making the small space in this corner of the gallery feel even smaller. His scent lingers between us until I have to take shallow breaths not to overwhelm myself.

My grip tightens on the edge of the kiosk, knuckles going white. He’s still not even touching me and I already feel marked. Consumed.Overwhelmed.

Puma leans in just slightly, voice lowering, words brushing too close to the shell of my ear. “And you?”

The question short-circuits my thoughts for half a second. “What about me?” I twist around, biting back a moan when I find him inches from my face. His lips are a breath away from mine, the temptation lingering between us. I clear my throat and step out from between him and the kiosk. “What about me?” I repeat.

His gaze flicks toward me, once again observing me like I’m the most important thing in this room. “What doyouthink about this painting?”

I feel his words more than I hear them, something about the way they press into the space between us, a weight against my skin. A slow swallow pushes past my throat. My mind races for the right answer, something neutral, something that won’t give anything away. “I think…” My voice stays steady, but I hesitate, choosing my next words carefully. “I think someone’s going to be very lucky to add it to their collection.”

Silence stretches for a beat too long. Then, finally, that slow smirk tugs at his lips, a glint of amusement flickering in his expression, like he knows exactly what I’m doing. He turns his attention back to the painting for a moment longer before he nods. “I’ll have to think about it but I’ll be coming to the showing later this evening.”

I can’t think up a response as he leaves me with yet another one of those smirks before heading for the entrance. He moves with that same infuriating, effortless confidence that makes my stomach coil too tight, my pulse stumble in ways it shouldn’t. The bell chimes as the door swings shut behind him and I force my hands to unclench, dragging them over my face, willing my heart to settle back into something steady.

“Violet.”

Sofie’s voice pulls me back, breaking through whatever haze had wrapped itself around me. She’s standing behind the desk, waving me over with a smile that tells me she saw all of that. Rubbing the back of my neck, I shake off the lingering warmth still clinging to my skin and make my way toward her, wary of whatever expression she’s got waiting for me.

She’s grinning. And that? That’s suspicious as hell. “What?” My voice comes out flat, already on guard. “Is something wrong, baby?”

Her grin only widens, hazel eyes bright with amusement. “You’re blushing.”

A scoff escapes before I can stop it, arms crossing over my chest in pure, knee-jerk denial. “Am not.”

Sofie giggles. “Vi, it’s okay if you want to start something with that Alpha.”

Every muscle in my body locks up. Giving into my desires means leaving Sofie alone and that’s not an option. Not when she’s so close to her heat. “Sof…”

“I’m serious,” she says, her voice gentler now, the teasing replaced by something softer, something I don’t want to hear. “You don’t have to—”

“I can’t.” The words come too fast, too sharp, cutting off whatever she was about to say before it can dig its way into my fragile heart. “You are my priority. End of discussion.”

The frown that pulls at her lips is immediate, the look she gives me so full of exasperation that it makes my stomach twist. “Vi,” she says, voice edged with frustration. “You’re allowed to be happy too.” For a second, I almost argue, almost tell her that isn’t how this works, that nothing about this situation allows for things like that, but before I can, she shakes her head and pushes something across the desk. “That’s not what I wanted to say, though. This is.”

Glancing down, I expect—I don’t even know what I expect—but it sure as hell isn’t a magazine. Thick, glossy, one of those expensive collector’s editions we get in sometimes, filled with luxury features, high-end interviews, business profiles. Sofie’s finger presses against the middle of the page and my stomach drops. Four beautiful, powerful men, posed in a photo so precise, so polished, that it practically radiates wealth, control, status. And right there—smirking, arrogant, wearing a suit like he was fucking born in it—Puma.

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