Page 164 of The Case of the Missing Love Stone

“I don’t want to leave either of you,” she says. “I don’t want to walk into Heritage Hall alone, and I don’t have to. You taught me that during my heat.”

Roman rests his cheek against her wet hair.

Scarlet reaches for my hand. “I need this resolved. I need to know what my grandmother was trying to tell me before whoever called gets there first.”

My alpha wants her wrapped in towels and carried into bed. The rest of me understands. “You stay between us,” I say. “You drink water before we leave. You tell us the first moment you feel tired.”

“I will.”

“And you take the blanket.”

Scarlet looks back at me. “Alpha.” Her smile is small and exhausted but real. “I’m not wearing a blanket.”

“Let’s negotiate after you get dressed.” I lift her from Roman’s arms and wrap her in the thickest towel I can find.

She lays her head against my shoulder while Roman climbs out behind us.

For one more minute, we remain together in the warm bathroom, our scents heavy in the steam and Scarlet safely held between us.

Then we dress her, feed her, and take our omega to finish what the town started.

Chapter 39

Roman Osprey

Scarlet stands between us, beneath the side awning of Sweetheart Haven Heritage Hall, while I fasten her silver moon pin beneath her collar. Her hair is still soft from the bath, auburn waves drying against the back of her denim vest. The cream blouse and long black skirt make her look more put together than I know she feels. Red flowers climb the dark fabric toward her knees, disappearing beneath the edge of the blanket Wes insisted she bring.

She compromised by folding it over one arm.

The clasp settles under my fingers the way a held breath settles once it’s finally let go. I have spent three days watching her body fight a war I couldn’t fight for her. Buttoning her collar shouldn’t feel like this much of a relief, yet it does.

Wes remains dissatisfied. He checks the side entrance, the rear service lane, the windows above us, and the deputy stationed near the shed before returning his attention to Scarlet. “Water.”

She takes the bottle from him and drinks without arguing.

The ease of it affects him more than he lets show. His hand settles against her lower back while she swallows. The touch is broad and possessive, but his thumb moves in a slow circle atop her vest, soothing rather than directing.

Scarlet lowers the bottle. “Better?”

“No,” Wes says.

Her expression softens. “I meant the water.”

“I know what you meant.”

She reaches up and smooths his collar. The gesture quiets part of him.

I touch the moon pin once to make sure the clasp holds. “There. You look beautiful.”

She glances toward the warped side door. “I look like I’m attending a funeral for municipal recordkeeping.”

“You look like yourself,” Wes says.

“I feel like I’m getting there.” Scarlet leans against his side for one breath, drawing cedar into her lungs before she takes my hand. The three of us enter together.

Heritage Hall smells exactly like an old Florida building in the swamp. The air conditioning rattles overhead, and uneven hardwood shifts beneath our feet. The converted boarding house wears its history badly, with bedrooms turned into galleries, closets packed with archival boxes, and festival banners hiding cracks in the plaster.

The front desk sits beneath a sign celebrating a hundred years of lasting love. Beyond it, tourists crowd around the empty glass case where the Love Stone used to rest. A young pack poses beside the vacant pedestal while a volunteer takes their photograph. The omega stands between her mates, both hands held, her smile wide enough to belong on a festival brochure.