Page 28 of The Case of the Missing Love Stone

“That isn’t relevant to the investigation.”

“Your alpha disagrees.”

His cedar scent spikes.

I grin and turn toward the window before he can see how pleased I am. I knew Scarlet affected him the moment her scent hit us in the bakery and Wes stopped breathing. He is trying so hard to reduce her to a case consideration that his restraint has become visible in every controlled movement.

Despite teasing Wes just to rile him up, Sweetheart Haven doesn’t really do hotels. My search for lodging brings up exactly what I expect. Everything here is bungalows and love cottages, each designed for couples chasing forever. I guide Wes toward the closest thing to a central lodging location. The place sits two blocks from the square. It’s a cluster of renovated cottages painted pale yellow, with flowering vines climbing every porch column, and wooden signs promising Romance Is Always in Season.

Wes stares at it. “No.”

“We need rooms.”

“We need a building that doesn’t attempt emotional manipulation on the front porch.”

“You survived the bakery.”

“Barely.”

I follow him inside.

The lobby contains heart-shaped pillows, framed photographs of bonded packs, and enough rose-scented air freshener to qualify as chemical warfare. A smiling beta behind the desk recognizes us before Wes finishes presenting his identification.

“Agents Osprey. Sheriff Bentley said you might need an extended stay.”

Small towns, so predictable.

She slides two registration cards across the desk. “We have adjoining rooms available.”

“One suite,” Wes says.

Her gaze flicks from me to him, taking in our matching surname and pack marks before her smile warms. “The Everlasting Suite has a separate sitting room.”

Wes closes his eyes briefly.

I pat his arm. “We’ll endure.”

The suite is aggressively romantic.

A carved wooden headboard surrounds a king bed. Pink flowers cover the quilt. A basket beside the window contains local honey, two souvenir sweetheart stones, and a brochure explaining six ways to strengthen a bond before breakfast.

Wes drops his bag beside the dresser. “I hate this town.”

“No, you hate decorative pillows.”

“They serve no purpose.”

I remove three from the bed and stack them on a chair. “There. The threat is contained.”

He ignores me and checks the locks, windows, adjoining door, smoke detector, and underside of the desk. I unpack our equipment while he finishes making sure the honeymoon suite hasn’t been weaponized.

Two laptops go on the desk. Case files remain inside the locking travel box.

I set up the encrypted router and spread the regional map across the small dining table. Wes calls the field office, confirms our location, and requests the latest GatorX comparisons and victim timelines.

By the time he hangs up, the room looks less like a romantic getaway and more like the temporary headquarters of two men investigating chemically induced bond collapse. Only the flower petals scattered across the bed undermine us.

Wes’s attention returns to the map. “What exactly happened today?”