Page 142 of The Case of the Missing Love Stone

My heat doesn’t care about the threat outside. Need builds sharp and overpowering. Fever burns through me, and I claw at Wes’s back.

“Alpha, I need you.”

Chapter 33

Roman Osprey

Scarlet’s plea tears through the nest while the figure on the tablet slips between rows of medicinal plants below us, a narrow metal case in one hand and a pale glove on the left. Wes’s knot still holds him inside her. His gaze keeps cutting between Scarlet and the screen, cedar and alpha musk sharpening every time she moves against him.

Every instinct in his body pulls in two directions. His alpha wants to cover Scarlet, answer the heat pouring from her skin, and keep his teeth near the pulse fluttering beneath her throat. The investigator in him watches the narrow metal case in the intruder’s hand move steadily toward the greenhouse’s rear workbench.

I reach for the phone beside the tablet and call Tom. “Active intrusion at Scarlet’s greenhouse,” I say when he answers. “One person, dark clothing, hood, carrying a metal case. Entered through the rear.”

Tom’s voice sharpens. “Units are moving. Don’t engage alone.”

“Scarlet’s in active heat,” I say, keeping my voice low. “Keep that off the radio.”

Wes’s head snaps toward the phone.

“Tom knows,” I tell him.

“No one else needs to.”

Tom answers before Wes can take the phone. “Understood. Private channel only.”

The figure turns toward the camera.

Rain gear hides most of their body, though no rain falls tonight. A black sleeve catches against the edge of the potting table, exposing the pale glove more clearly.

“Same courier,” I tell Tom. “Left glove. Possible match for Rusk.”

Scarlet claws at Wes’s shoulders. Her scent floods the nest, green sweetness ripening toward a fevered floral note that coats my tongue. She rocks against his knot, chasing pressure, while Wes tries to keep his attention on both her and the screen.

“Easy, little omega.” His voice comes out ragged. “I’m here.”

“It hurts.”

“I’ve got you, sweetheart.” He lowers his forehead to hers, but his gaze cuts toward the tablet again. The intruder reaches behind a stack of empty soil bags and removes a small black object taped beneath the workbench.

A camera. He didn’t bring the metal case to leave it. He came to collect surveillance equipment. The realization turns my stomach.

Motherfucker.

“Tom, he’s retrieving a camera from beneath the rear bench. We need the approach roads blocked.”

“Ruiz is coming from the county road. Bellamy has the drainage entrance. Two minutes.”

Two minutes is enough time for him to disappear into swamp and darkness.

I switch the tablet to the second camera angle. The greenhouse glass throws back distorted reflections, but the exterior feed shows a motorcycle parked beyond the rear fence. No running lights. Dark bodywork. The rear plate has been covered.

Wes sees it. “Old access.”

“I have it.”

Scarlet’s fingers slide into my hair and pull until my face turns toward hers. “Roman.”

The heat has widened her pupils. Tears shine along her lashes from the recognition failure, but she knows me now. My cinnamon settles the sour edge of fear in her perfume, and she drags me down until our mouths meet.