Page 6 of The Case of the Missing Love Stone

“Coffee,” I say. “Whatever’s good.”

“Cardamom cold brew,” Roman says without hesitation, already pulling the pencil from behind his ear. “Two, please.”

I glance at him. “You ordering for me now?”

“You drank mine at the last gas station.”

“You left it unattended.”

His mouth curves.

My hand settles briefly at the small of his back as we step closer to the counter. “Order the coffee.”

The redhead watches the exchange. Her attention moves from Roman to me, then back again. Interest warms her scent before she reins it in.

My scent responds to hers.

The curvy blonde beside her whispers something that makes the omega choke lightly on her coffee.

Roman coughs into his fist.

I give him a look.

“What?”

“That was a cough?”

“It was.”

“Convincing.”

The redhead’s eyes narrow at both of us.

Junie, according to the name stitched across the blonde’s apron, starts preparing the drinks. “Anything else?”

Roman looks toward the display case. “Yeah, two of whatever smells so good.”

Her professional smile warms. “Honey cakes.”

“Then we should probably start there.”

I should be focused on the bond drugs that brought us to this town. I’m the lead investigator on this one and with the rising stack of victim case files, we need answers.

The Bond Enforcement Special Task Force was created six years ago as a regional branch of the DEA, after illegal bond-manipulation compounds started surfacing across the South. We handle the cases that refuse to stay inside one jurisdiction: trafficking rings, black-market suppressants, counterfeit bite-removal drugs, and compounds that cross state lines faster than local departments can follow them. State and local agencies are required to coordinate when a qualifying case becomes ours.

GatorX is different from most of what reaches us. For several years, dealers sold it as a temporary escape from the bond. One dose bought a few hours without the connection screaming in the back of someone’s mind. It was dirty and dangerous, but usually temporary.

Then the permanent cases started. Three months ago, a bonded beta outside Miami took it and woke unable to recognize his mate. Two weeks later, an omega in Atlanta became convinced her pack had been replaced by strangers and nearly burned down the pack house trying to escape. Then an alpha in Pensacola tore apart a motel room because he swore somebody had ripped the bond straight out of his chest.

The latest samples all carry the same wetland signature: plant material, mineral residue, compounds consistent with swamp environments. Enough to keep pointing us toward this part of Florida but not enough to tell us why.

Blood on tile flashes across my memory before I can stop it. A terrified omega shaking so hard her teeth chatter. The burnt-sugar scent of panic clinging to a bond that had already collapsed by the time we arrived.

I was minutes too late on that case. Minutes should not be enough time to destroy somebody’s life. Apparently, with GatorX, they are.

Roman’s fingers catch my wrist. “You’re doing that thing.”

“What thing?”