Page 153 of The Case of the Missing Love Stone

Roman closes the interview file.

It looks like Cal Rusk has become the next easiest person in Sweetheart Haven to blame. The town is already preparing to call the danger over, but someone else is out there. And that someone knew where to hurt me the most.

Chapter 36

Roman Osprey

By late afternoon, the cottage smells like broth, clean laundry, cedar, and the fading sweetness of Scarlet’s heat. Her temperature holds below one hundred one. The urgent edge in her scent has softened into a warm, exhausted bloom that clings to the living room.

Wes built the nest across half the sofa and most of the rug, layering quilts, pillows, every shirt Scarlet requested, and the soft crocheted scarf she found until the space belonged to all three of us.

She sleeps with her cheek against my thigh and one hand wrapped around Wes’s wrist. He has not shifted since she closed her eyes. He sits on the floor beside her, his back against the sofa, watching every breath as though vigilance alone can keep her safe.

I drag my fingers through his hair. “She’s cooling down.”

“She lost your scent.” His attention remains fixed on her face. “She looked at you like you were a stranger.”

“And then she found me.”

“She should never have been exposed.” The words come from the same place as his alpha’s growl, low and beneath his control.

I lean closer and press my mouth to his temple. “You kept her safe through it.”

“I left her.”

“For like six minutes.”

“The wrong six minutes could have killed her.”

Scarlet stirs against my leg, and Wes stops speaking. Her fingers tighten around his wrist before her eyes open. Sleep leaves her slowly. Auburn strands cling to her cheek, and the fever flush has faded to a softer pink. “You’re arguing over me,” she says.

“Reviewing operational decisions,” I answer.

“Quietly enough to wake me.”

“I’m sorry we woke you, sweetheart.” Wes lifts her hand to his mouth. “How do you feel?”

“Tired.” She shifts beneath the blankets, testing sore muscles. “Tender. Hungry.”

“I’ll reheat the soup.”

She catches the front of Wes’s shirt before he can rise. “Stay.”

Wes resettles beside her without hesitation.

I reach for the tray on the coffee table. The broth has cooled, but Scarlet accepts the mug and drinks several careful swallows while Wes holds the blanket around her shoulders.

When she finishes, she leans into him. She places her cheek against his chest and lets his hand travel down her back. “You can breathe,” she tells him.

“I’m breathing.”

“Barely.”

His palm spreads against her lower back. “You asked me to keep you safe.”

“I asked you to take care of me.” Scarlet lifts her head. “Those are not always the same thing.”

Wes looks toward me. The distinction reaches an old bruise shared between us.