Page 34 of The Case of the Missing Love Stone

The original path cuts low through cypress trees and flooded brush, narrow enough that Wes occasionally has to move branches before I walk into them.

The first time he did it, his knuckles brushed my shoulder. Casual contact shouldn’t register as dynamite. I filed that observation under the same category as everything else about this man—inconvenient, involuntary, and not something I plan to act on.

Humidity presses damp heat against my skin, while insects drone through the reeds. Roman walks behind us with his notebook tucked beneath one arm, his gaze moving constantly between the trees and the waterline.

I walk nestled between the two of them. The warmth of their pack frequency is an easy hum that fills the air. An embarrassing part of me wants to know how it would feel to belong inside the ease with them.

“This place feels older than the town,” Roman says.

“It is.”

The path narrows again. Wes reaches back without looking, his palm resting briefly against my waist to steer me around exposed roots slick with mud. My breath catches before I can stop it, and I lean toward his warmth before my judgment has time to weigh in.

His hand disappears quickly. He’s professional and controlled.

That makes it so much worse.

The heat of his palm remains through my shirt, and my scent softens toward him before I force it back.

Roman’s attention moves between us like a current. “So,” he says lightly. “How many people get brought to secret swamp ritual sites on their second morning with you?”

“This isn’t anything.”

“Technically, we fed you breakfast,” Wes says.

“Or is it bribing a possible witness?”

“God help me,” Wes mutters.

Roman’s laugh moves over my shoulders from behind.

Their combined scents settle around me as we walk, cedar in front and warm spice at my back. My body matches their pace without instruction.

The swamp opens into a shallow clearing wrapped in pale hanging moss. Water pools black and glossy beneath the trees, broken only by clusters of broad green leaves floating near the edges.

Swamp lilies.

Roman crouches near the water, examining the plants before rubbing his fingers together and bringing them to his nose. “These match the scent profile better than anything we’ve flagged so far.”

“That still doesn’t prove the flowers from the fountain connect to your compound,” I reply.

“No,” Wes says. “It doesn’t. We’ll need the lab to trace the residue and confirm.”

The answer settles me more than it should, because at least they’re thinking about this in terms of evidence rather than in convenience. That can only help me.

I move carefully toward the waterline, scanning the mud. Most people look at swamps by searching for what stands out rather than noticing what changed. A bent reed. Broken algae film. Fresh drag marks in the silt.

My next step disappears.

The mud sucks my boot down with a wet, slurping sound, and my body keeps moving while my foot stays put. “Oh, come on,” I snap, grabbing for the nearest branch.

The swamp betrays me.

Wes catches me before I hit the mud, one arm banding around my waist and the other closing around my elbow. The force spins me toward him, and for one bright, stupid second, my hands land flat against his chest.

He’s solid. Warm. A whole wall of alpha, cedar, and controlled breath.

My boot stays behind in the mud. My dignity considers joining it.