Page 67 of The Case of the Missing Love Stone

Lena turns. Her shoulder clips a table, and a vase crashes to the floor, glass spreading across the tile.

The alpha lunges after her, but Wes catches him. “Stop.”

“Let me go,” the alpha pleads.

“If you chase her right now, you’ll make it worse.”

The alpha looks ready to fight him. I step forward before I can stop myself. “She’s not herself. She can’t see what you’re doing, only what she’s afraid of.”

The words leave my mouth, and the entire bakery turns toward me.

Lena sobs near the door, clearly torn and on the edge of bolting. The bell above it trembles.

Roman lowers himself several feet away from her, unhurried, making himself small. His hazel eyes stay soft and level, gentle enough not to threaten and steady enough to follow. “Lena. I’m Roman. I’m not pack. I’m not going to touch you.”

Her breathing stutters.

Her beta kneels on her other side. “Lena. Look at me.”

The bond shudders. My vision blurs briefly, then a hand settles against my lower back.

Wes. He’s still holding the alpha with one hand, grounding me with the other. His thumb presses into the fabric of my shirt in steady, deliberate circles, and it allows the room to sharpen again.

Roman guides Lena through each breath while her beta talks her slowly back from the edge. It takes nearly ten minutes. By the end, her alpha looks destroyed. Honey is crying behind the counter, and Junie has gone pale.

Mrs. Delaney stares at me with open hostility backed by fear.

Then someone whispers it. “She knew.”

The words move through the bakery like water finding cracks.

“She knew what was happening.”

“She always knows.”

“She caused this.”

“Bondbreaker.”

An old childhood wound that didn’t fully scar reopens.

Wes turns. His expression moves through the room faster than shouting ever could, and nobody speaks.

Roman rises slowly and looks at me. “Scarlet.”

My hands are shaking, but I pick up my coffee. “Well. This probably didn’t help my reputation.”

Nobody laughs. That’s fair.

Wes steps closer, his voice dropping below the volume in the room. “You’re done here.”

“I’m not a loaf of bread.”

His gaze moves across my face, my hands, and the exhaustion I apparently failed to hide. “You look like you’re still standing out of spite.”

That is offensively accurate.

Roman gently removes the coffee from my grip before I can crush it. “Come on, little menace.”