Page 70 of The Case of the Missing Love Stone

“The search warrant already made this place stop feeling like mine,” I say. “Now this.”

Roman’s expression tightens.

“I have to make do with what I’ve got. I don’t get to collapse because someone scares me or fold because my house smells wrong. No matter what happens I never get to crawl under a table and wait for the world to stop poking me.”

My throat burns.

My instincts are screaming for enclosed space, locked doors, and familiar scent. My body wants Roman’s hand at my back and Wes between me and the damage.

Wes takes one careful step forward.

I take one back, and my spine meets the truck door.

His eyes darken, but he doesn’t touch me. He plants one hand against the truck beside my shoulder, close enough that cedar envelopes me.

My body recognizes shelter and leans toward it.

“I intend to keep you safe,” he says.

“Congratulations.”

His mouth tightens at the edge. “Even when you’re reckless.”

My temper snaps. “I’m not reckless. I’m cornered.”

The alpha certainty in his face cracks, and beneath it is worry so clean and furious, it steals my next breath. “I know,” he says.

It’s the wrong answer and the right one at once. I grab the front of his shirt and kiss him.

Wes’s hand closes around my waist while the other slides into my hair. He kisses me with controlled force, his mouth demanding, giving me exactly enough pressure to push back against.

Cedar fills my lungs. My body goes soft everywhere my anger wants to stay sharp. I pull him closer instead of pretending I don’t know what I’m asking for. His thigh presses between mine, and pleasure sparks low through my panic. Wes makes a rough sound against my mouth.

For several breaths, the ruined yard disappears.

Then Roman’s fingers close gently around my wrist, grounding me. Cardamom and cinnamon move through the cedar, and I turn my hand beneath his until our fingers link. The contact brings the rest of the world back. Paint. Broken flowers. My house.

I break the kiss.

Wes’s breathing is rough. Mine is worse.

I stay close enough that my mouth brushes his jaw when I speak. “If I let instinct choose every response, I’d never leave the space between you.”

Roman’s thumb moves along my knuckles.

“Then don’t.” Wes looks at me for a long moment. “Ask,” he says. “Argue. Tell us no. But don’t make being afraid the same as being alone.”

My eyes sting. I refuse to acknowledge that development.

Roman steps closer, his shoulder brushing mine while he looks over the damage. “Let’s make the house harder to approach before we debate the full philosophy of alpha management.”

“Coward,” I tell him.

“Professional mediator.”

Wes releases my waist by degrees. The absence of his hand leaves my body colder, but Roman is still linked with me, and Wes doesn’t step far.

“I’ll fix the latches,” Wes says.