Page 187 of The Case of the Missing Love Stone

Wes lifts his face.

His eyes are dark, but his control is intact. Nothing in his expression resembles the alpha who carried her out of the swamp yesterday. He is not trying to outrun fear or prove he can keep her safe. He is looking at Scarlet as though she has placed the rest of her life in his hands, and he understands exactly how carefully it must be held.

“Not yet,” he says.

Her brows draw together. “I just told you I want it.”

“I heard you.” His thumb strokes beneath her eye. “You survived a drug exposure, a heat, and a gun pointed at your throat. You slept four hours. You have eaten half a bowl of soup since yesterday morning.”

“I ate the crackers Roman brought me.”

“You fed one to a raccoon.”

“It looked hungry.”

“It was outside the window.”

“It had a compelling face.”

Wes’s mouth twitches, but his voice remains gentle. “I will bond you when you are rested, fed, and strong enough to choose it without your body mistaking relief for need.”

Scarlet studies him. The answer could sound like refusal from another man. From Wes, it sounds like devotion. She cups his face and kisses him softly, until his purr rolls beneath all three of us. When she pulls back, she turns toward me. “Breakfast,” she says.

I blink. “That was easier than expected.”

“I’m learning that arguing with him only makes his ego stronger.”

“Excellent progress.”

Wes narrows his eyes.

Scarlet slides off his lap and reaches for us when her legs wobble. We steady her between us.

“Food,” Wes says.

“Then a shower,” I say.

“Then sleep,” he replies.

Scarlet looks from one of us to the other. “Then bonds?”

Wes bends and presses his mouth to her forehead. “Then you ask us again.”

She does. Three nights later, with an empty dinner plate on the nightstand, color returned to her cheeks, and rain whispering against the cottage roof, Scarlet asks us again.

She stands in the middle of the upstairs bedroom while we finish turning it into ours. Boxes crowd the upstairs hall. Our boxes.

Wes called our landlord two days ago and explained that we would not be returning to the apartment except to sign final paperwork, and BESTF arranged the move. The agency relocation crew collected clothing, books, kitchen equipment, and the chair Wes insists is good for his back.

The first shipment arrived before midnight.

Scarlet cried when she saw our names written beside hers on the delivery sheet. She denies this. There is security footage.

In the room that will be our pack’s, her quilts remain layered across the nest. Her grandmother’s dresser sits beneath the window, and the moon-shaped lamp casts soft light over our unpacked boxes. My books fill the lower shelves beside her folklore collection, and my sketchbook rests next to her tarot cards. Wes’s clothes occupy one side of the closet with military precision. Mine have already escaped their assigned shelf. Nothing that belonged to Scarlet has been removed.

We have fit ourselves around her life instead of asking her to clear space for ours.

She likes our shared space. I can tell from the way her scent deepens and the shine that gathers in her eyes.