Page 3 of The Case of the Missing Love Stone

“Fine,” I answer automatically.

Her eyes flick toward the flowers before returning to me. They carry the same careful hesitation, subtle but familiar. “Well,” she says lightly, “festival preparations always stir people up.”

“Apparently.”

She nods and continues across the square.

Movement near the fountain catches my attention.

A young omega stands beside her alpha and beta near the edge of the stone. At first, they look perfectly normal. Their body language says they’re familiar with each other in the easy way bonded people usually are. It’s the unhurried familiarity of people whose bodies have learned to run in tandem. Then the alpha reaches for her hand but pauses. It’s only for a second, but I feel it.

Pain hits me sharp enough to steal my breath. Underneath the pain, unease registers without my permission. Whereas only moments ago, the warmth of the pack frequency that bonded mates unknowingly carry was stable enough to settle my nerves, now the tension grates on them. My unease builds until tiny fissures crack their connection, and its absence hits nearly as hard as the wrongness.

The omega’s smile flickers. Confusion crosses her face before she smooths it away. Her alpha notices too. Panic flashes briefly in his expression before he covers it. Their connection hums wrong beneath my skin, stretched thin like chords pulled too tight. They still look bonded but my sight says that is already becoming a lie.

My skin prickles. Nausea rolls through me fast and sudden, and I brace one hand against the fountain’s edge until my dizziness passes.

It’s getting worse. Whatever is happening to the bonds in Sweetheart Haven seems to be spreading.

I force myself upright slowly and step away from the fountain before anyone notices my reaction.

The square feels louder than before. Music carries through the heat while tourists laugh beside festival booths. Down the street, someone opens a bakery door, and the scent of warm honey drifts into the air.

Before I consciously decide to do so, my body turns toward Sweet Tooth Bakery with its promise of warmth and familiar faces.

Sweet Tooth Bakery sits near the corner of Lover’s Lane and Main Street, with flowers overflowing beneath every window and a permanent line out the door during festival season.

The moment I step inside, the scents of sugar, coffee, and baked bread close around me. The bakery has the comfort of a room that has held the same people for years. Voices overlap near the counter, cups clink against saucers, and the air itself seems steeped in ordinary comfort.

My muscles loosen. I let go of the tension, just for a moment, before I notice I’m doing it.

Junie glances up from behind the espresso machine, her blonde curls tied beneath a pale-pink scarf. Her blue eyes brighten when she sees me, though the old hurt between us hasn’t faded entirely. “Hey, stranger.”

I arch my brow. “I was here yesterday.”

“That is practically abandonment in bakery time.”

The tension from last bonding season still exists between us, but the roughest edges have worn smooth. At least, we’re trying to let that be the case.

Junie slides a honey cake onto wax paper without asking if I want one. “You look pale.”

“I’m naturally delicate.”

She snorts softly. “You once fought a man at the farmers market over Mr. Woodstork’s last bag of spicy boiled peanuts.”

“He started it.”

“He was eighty.”

“He knew what he did.”

That finally earns a real laugh out of her, and something inside me softens in response. Even hurt, Junie still tries.

I reach for my wallet while she bags the pastry. “How’s your mom?”

“Still trying to talk me into another Sweetheart Challenge.”

“That sounds exhausting.”