Page 69 of The Case of the Missing Love Stone

His mouth curves, but concern remains in his eyes. “Very healthy.”

Wes looks back at us. “Two people.”

My stomach knots. “How do you know?”

“Two tread patterns: one heavier near the greenhouse, one lighter near the driveway.” He points toward a faint print at the grass line. “The second person stayed back.” His attention returns to the broken greenhouse latch. “They didn’t only come here to paint a threat. Somebody went inside.”

“A lookout,” Roman says.

People came to my house while I was gone, crossed the yard, stepped through my flowers, and marked the place my grandmother left me with the name this town has been trying to make stick since I was a child.

Wes stands and scans the property. He checks the porch first, then the side gate, then the latch on my kitchen window. Controlled purpose replaces everything else in him, his expression growing colder at every weakness he finds. It’s alarming. It’s also intimate in a way that makes my skin feel too tight.

“You don’t have outdoor lights on the water side,” he says.

“I have stars.”

“You have blind spots.”

“I also have a broom and a bad attitude.”

Roman lifts his brows. “I’m starting to suspect the broom may not meet task-force standards.”

“I refuse to be judged by a man who arrived with a field satchel.”

Wes doesn’t look amused. “You’re not staying here alone until this is handled.”

My omega hears protection and moves toward it before the rest of me can decide whether it’s a comfort or danger. I fold my arms. “That sounded dangerously close to a decree.”

“It was an assessment.”

“Alpha men love calling decrees assessments.”

Roman coughs into his hand.

Wes looks at me fully. “People came onto your property and threatened you.”

“I can read, yes.”

“They escalated.”

“So did your tone.”

His gaze drops briefly to my mouth. Heat flares low and fierce. It’s the wrong timing for every reason I can name. His attention shifts back to the greenhouse. “Inside,” Wes says.

I blink. “Excuse me?”

“Or the truck. Pick one.”

The softness in me folds up fast. “I’m not a houseplant you can move out of harsh weather.”

“No.” He steps closer. “You’re an omega whose home was violated by people who wanted you to come back and see it. Any other omega would have dropped by now, and you’re here arguing with me about broken latches.”

Every word feels sharp and personal because they are true. I hate that most of all.

“You think I don’t know that?” My voice rises. “You think I don’t feel them here? Their boots in my yard? Their paint on my glass? Their hands in my grandmother’s flowers?”

Wes reaches for me but stops. The restraint makes me angrier than if he grabbed me. At least then I could fight the wrong target.