Page 172 of The Case of the Missing Love Stone

Roman kisses my temple. “We both do.”

My omega reaches for their frequencies and settles between them.

The notebook contains three more pages of measurements before the final entry.

Stone unstable in storage.

Move with final batch.

South route.

Release site before opening night.

Tom reads the entry twice. “They moved the artifact and the final batch.”

“South,” Wes says. “Which means it’s moving along the route from the museum fragment.”

I look from the empty museum case on the live feed to the copied legend, the racks of treated charms, and the notes describing Maribel and me.

“Okay. Simple version,” I say. “GatorX gives temporary relief from bond pain, but this batch can destroy bond recognition afterward. Someone with access to Heritage Hall found the old protection story and believed the real Love Stone could stop that from happening. Mercer Transport moved the supplies and the stolen artifact through this annex. Rusk handled deliveries. Maribel and I became test results.”

I point to the final notebook entry. “It still didn’t work. Now they’ve taken the Love Stone and the final batch to the release site to try again.”

No one speaks for a moment.

Tom looks toward the screen. “That makes a lot of assumptions about where this started and why someone was acting.”

“It’s a theory, with several pieces of evidence that line up,” Wes replies.

A cooling unit inside the annex coughs. The air monitor shrieks through the body-camera audio. The technician turns toward a gauge beside the refrigerated cabinet.

“Temperature is rising. Pressure is climbing in one of the sealed containers.”

Tom gives a hurried command into the radio. “Evacuate.”

“Tell them not to attempt to move the container. The carrier may aerosolize as it warms,” Wes says.

Tom relays the message. The body-camera feed jolts as the entry team retreats through cold storage, loading bay, and decontamination.

Wes pulls me farther from the fence and strips out of his gear. Roman removes my vest once Tom confirms the clean-zone boundary has shifted. He checks my face and hands while Wes scents my hair, neck, and wrists.

“Scarlet,” Roman says. “Look at me.”

I meet his eyes.

“Who am I?”

“Roman.”

Wes cups my cheek. “And me?”

“My alpha.” The answer comes without fear.

His eyes close for half a breath.

I reach for Roman too. “My beta.”

He kisses my fingers.