Page 62 of The Case of the Missing Love Stone

Scarlet sits at the table rather than arguing further. I look back at the wall before my expression gives away anything I haven’t decided to say yet.

Photographs and twine stretch across half the dining room wall now. The theft, the release rites, the GatorX case, her grandmother’s journals, all of it is connected through Sweetheart Haven. The investigation finally looks like something shared.

Wes sets the pan on the stove, and the butter hisses. Scarlet talks us through the differences between release customs while I make notes.

Minutes later, Wes brings plates to the table, with eggs folded around ham, onion, and cheese, and toast browned in the same pan.

Scarlet looks down at hers. “You didn’t have to do this.”

“I wanted to.”

She eats without complaint, which is its own kind of gratitude.

Afterward, Scarlet drifts to the couch with a notebook in her lap. Wes clears the dishes while I transfer my notes into the case file. She keeps explaining older rituals with the focused determination of a woman who intends to outlast her own exhaustion.

“You’re fading,” I tell her.

“I’m sitting upright.”

“Barely.”

She rolls her eyes without any particular heat behind it.

Twenty minutes later, she’s asleep mid-sentence.

“She looks different resting,” Wes says from the kitchen doorway.

Her face has released the tension she carries while awake. One hand rests curled near her cheek, the other still touching the edge of the notebook, as if she plans to resume the argument when she wakes.

“You sound like you’ve known her longer than a few days.”

He doesn’t answer. He doesn’t need to.

I reach for the quilt draped over the back of the couch. Wes stops me with a look, then crosses the room and crouches beside her. His fingers brush loose hair away from her face. Scarlet shifts toward the warmth of his hand in her sleep, cheek turning into his palm.

Wes freezes for half a breath. Then he slides one arm beneath her knees and the other behind her back. She makes a soft sound and curls against his chest.

“Bedroom?” he asks softly.

I nod.

He carries her up the stairs with deliberate care. I gather the notebook and turn off the record player before following.

The evidence remains on the wall. The old photograph still offers more questions than answers. The ribbons may matter. The archive request may matter. The theft, the bond instability, and GatorX may overlap or may only be colliding in the same frightened town. None of it is settled.

The only clear thing tonight is that Scarlet sleeps easier when we’re here. That doesn’t make her ours yet, but it does make leaving feel less simple.

Chapter 15

Scarlet Sage

The morning after the storm, I wake in my own bed, with cedar on my pillow and warm spice caught in the blanket around my legs. I close my eyes again. This would be easier if my body had any interest in dignity. My omega is recognizing their scent mixture as the safety of pack and has stopped listening to any arguments otherwise.

Heat crawls over my skin as I inhale the warmth of their scents. I slide one hand beneath the blanket. The cotton of my sleep shorts is already wet when my fingers press between my thighs. My breath catches as I remember Wes’s hands, Roman’s mouth, and the low certainty in their voices when they told me I could ask for what I wanted.

My fingers circle my clit.

I remember what Roman sounds like when his control slips. I think about the way Wes watches my face when he touches me. I shiver at the memory of being held between them.