Page 45 of His Untouchable Heart

“That’s the dream.”

I nudged her with my elbow. “Go get Anthony. We all need sleep if we’re going to survive whatever fresh hell tomorrow has planned.”

She grinned and tossed off the blanket, her bare feet padding softly across the floor.

And as she disappeared down the hall, I let my eyes fall shut, wondering how long this strange, borrowed calm would last—and trying not to think too hard about everything still waiting for us on the other side of it.

My eyes were already fluttering shut when I heard the door ease open. The light creak of hinges. The soft scuff of bare feet on polished wood.

Anthony didn’t say a word. He moved with quiet purpose as if the room itself was sacred somehow—like he didn’t want to disturb whatever peace had finally settled over it.

I heard the soft rustle of fabric as he peeled off his shirt. Then the subtle shift of the mattress beneath me as he slid under the covers. His body was warm and familiar as he tucked himself in beside me.

He didn’t ask if I was okay. Didn’t press for conversation.

He just wrapped his arm around me and pulled me close, gently, like I might still break.

I sighed into him, letting the weight of his body and the scent of his skin—linen, salt, and something unmistakably his—anchor me to the present.

His hand found its way to my stomach and settled there, absentminded, maybe, or instinctive. But it stayed.

And something about the quiet weight of it made my breath catch.

I didn't move. I didn’t want to.

Instead, I let my fingers slip over his, linking with him lightly, like a promise neither of us needed to speak aloud.

CHAPTERSEVENTEEN

Anthony

I smiled to myself. Gabrielle and I had fallen into a rhythm again.

It wasn’t the cautious distance we’d shared when I first arrived at the gallery—before the vault had been opened after Devereux’s guilty plea— before the secrets began to unspool. It also wasn’t the electric, barely-contained current of tension that had defined our time on the yacht. This felt… different. Calmer. Steady.

Side by side at the expansive table in the gallery's workspace, we both had our laptops open, the gentle whir of the scanner in the background acting as a soft metronome. The air smelled faintly of aged paper and brewed coffee.

“Three pieces cleared this morning,” I said, glancing up from my screen. “France, Germany, and one heading to Dubai. The foundation’s arranging transport.”

Gabrielle nodded, her fingers pausing on the trackpad. “That’s good. I wasn’t sure the Chagall would get confirmed so fast.”

I smiled. “Neither was I. But the tracing on the pigment came back clean, and the paperwork finally matched.”

She gave a small, distracted smile, then reached for her coffee. The mug hovered near her lips for a second too long before she took a sip and set it down barely touched.

I watched her for a beat longer than necessary. Her complexion looked paler than usual under the natural light. Her eyes were sharp, scanning the data, but her body told a different story—tense shoulders, stiff posture, a kind of internal retreat I recognized but didn’t yet understand.

She was here. She was working. But something in her energy was… off.

“You okay?” I asked keeping my voice easy.

Gabrielle glanced at me and slowly nodded. “Yeah. Just still tired from everything we’ve been through, I guess.”

I didn’t press. I could’ve. But I didn’t.

“Let’s pull the next two from the vault after this break,” I said instead. “Burker’s warmed up and ready to go.”

“Sounds good.”

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