Page 163 of The Case of the Missing Love Stone

Roman keeps her supported against his chest while his fingers slide lower. He touches her gently, avoiding every tender place, stroking her clit with slow circles beneath the water.

I draw back enough to watch Scarlet’s face as she sighs. I cup one breast through the water, teasing her nipple with my thumb while Roman works between her thighs. There is no heat frenzy in the way she responds. Her body opens gradually, guided by pleasure instead of pain.

“Look at me, little omega.”

Her green eyes find mine.

Roman kisses the side of her neck. His fingers move faster.

Scarlet’s breath catches.

I keep my palm around her breast and my mouth close to hers while the pleasure builds. “That’s it, sweetheart. Let us give you this.”

Her hand closes around my wrist. Roman holds her tighter when she comes.

The orgasm rolls through her quickly, gentle enough not to strain her recovering body. She trembles against him and releases a soft cry into my mouth.

My alpha settles at the sound. I needed this as much as she did, just a moment when her body reaches for us and finds pleasure instead of fever. A moment when our pack can give her what she needs.

Roman kisses her shoulder while his hand slows.

Scarlet’s eyes remain closed. “That was today’s good thing,” she whispers.

“One of them,” Roman says.

My phone rings on the counter.

Scarlet groans softly but doesn’t move from Roman’s arms.

I answer. Tom has the trace results and a report from the outside analyst. The call came through a prepaid relay. The strongest signal bounced south of town near the old access corridor, covering Heritage Hall, several festival buildings, and the service road.

The analyst found more. Every suspicious transaction came from the preservation office terminal inside Sweetheart Haven Heritage Hall: the archive request for Scarlet’s grandmother’s files, the museum transfer that moved the sealed container six days before the Love Stone was reported missing, and the temporary codes Rusk used at the preservation shed.

Three different crimes, one preservation office. Whoever used that terminal supplied the history and the access. Rusk did the dirty work after.

Scarlet opens her eyes.

Roman’s arms tighten around her.

Tom confirms the terminal has not been secured. Heritage Hall closes for the day in less than two hours.

“I’m requesting consent now,” he says. “If they refuse, I’ll start on a warrant.”

I end the call.

Scarlet begins to sit forward.

Roman keeps one hand against her stomach. “Slowly, love.”

“We’re going.”

“You just collapsed,” I say.

“I came back.”

“You’re still recovering.”

“I am.” Her gaze moves between us. “Because you’re taking care of me.” The gratitude in her voice disarms the refusal forming in my throat.