Page 185 of The Case of the Missing Love Stone

Scarlet’s breath breaks. She presses her forehead to my chest and cries.

My purr tears through me.

Roman wraps around her back and presses his face to her hair.

For several seconds, the three of us stand in the ruined ritual while deputies move around us and evidence bags fill with the town’s oldest lies.

The Love Stone is recovered. Sullivan is in custody. Myrtle doesn’t resist when Tom leads her away.

Scarlet lifts her head. Mud streaks her cheek, and tears cling to her lashes. Her scent is full of fear and exhaustion. “Take me home,” she whispers.

I gather her into my arms. Roman stays against my side as we cross the opened circle and leave the release site behind.

Forever isn’t a clenched fist that traps love; it’s an open hand that allows it to live. We carry her home, not as an omega claimed but as one who chose us.

Chapter 44

Roman Osprey

Scarlet wakes in Wes’s lap. She fell asleep there sometime after dawn, wrapped in three blankets while he sat against the headboard, pretending the bruise across his chest didn’t hurt. I wake beside them to the sight of her cheek pressed over his heart and his hand buried in her hair.

For a moment, neither of them knows I’m watching. Wes traces the curve of her ear with one finger. Scarlet makes a soft sound and presses closer. His alpha purr deepens.

“You’re staring,” he says.

“So are you.”

“I’m allowed.”

“Interesting legal theory.”

Scarlet’s mouth curves against his borrowed shirt. “Both of you are loud in the morning.” Her voice is rough with sleep.

Wes looks down. “How do you feel?”

“Like I was chased through a swamp, held at gunpoint, and slept under an alpha who believes circulation is optional.”

His arms loosen.

Scarlet catches them before he can release her. “I didn’t say move.”

His expression softens so quickly, it’s adorable.

I slide closer and tuck her feet beneath my thigh. “She wants to complain from the preferred location.”

“Exactly.”

Wes lowers his mouth to her hair. She reaches for me without looking, and I give her my hand. The three of us remain tangled together while morning fills the room. The house smells like a secure omega, wood, cedar, cinnamon, cardamom, and the faint remains of the soup Honey left on the porch after Tom drove us home.

Wes lifts a cup of water from the nightstand and holds it to her mouth. She drinks while watching him.

“You’re bruised,” she says.

“I know.”

“You need ice.”

“I had ice.”