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“What is it?” Ezra’s shoulder presses more firmly against mine.

“I don’t know, but I’m going to find out.”

The mark doesn’t point toward the house. It leans toward the water, toward the dock, toward the canoe tugging lightly at its rope.

“The stone isn’t fixing Ezra,” I say. “It reacts when water, scent, touch, and place line up. That means his fading may not be one problem. It may be where several problems overlap.”

I look from the page to the spring, then at the plaque half hidden in vines.

The town’s famous Love Stone sits behind museum glass, but I’m starting to think it’s not the only ritual stone connected to whatever is going on in Sweetheart Haven.

Chapter 9

Theo Heron

By the time Pepper finishes breakfast, the cool morning is losing the fight. Heat gathers above the water in thin waves. The boards are warm beneath my boots, and the jasmine around the gazebo releases a sweeter scent as the sun climbs. Pepper’s perfume rises with it, peppermint and vanilla thickening beneath rosemary until every alpha instinct in me pulls tight.

My body hasn’t settled since last night. Pepper shifts on the bench, and my cock hardens against my jeans. Again.

Her heat may be resting in the background, but my alpha is fully awake, pacing under my skin and tracking every change in her breathing. It wants her fed, shaded, carried, covered in our scents, and back in the attic before the next wave can catch her away from the nest.

Pepper leans toward the notebook, fascinated by the damp mark spreading across the page. “I need the angle. If the lines are directional, I should measure where the notebook was sitting compared to the stone.”

“You need shade,” I say.

“I’m in shade.”

“You need rest.”

“I’m sitting.”

Ezra lowers his coffee. “She has you there.”

I look at him. He smiles into the cup.

Pepper reaches for her phone. “One photograph of the mark. One of the plaque. Then I’ll go upstairs.”

“And the stone’s position,” I say.

Her face brightens. “Yes.”

“That wasn’t an excuse for twelve more tests.”

“Three photographs and I’m done.” Her scent turns fizzy with pleasure.

My alpha reacts as if I offered her jewelry instead of a limited documentation window.

I take the pictures myself so she doesn’t climb over the bench. The plaque reads clearly beneath the vines. J. Vines 1898. For the road home.

I photograph the damp symbol, then the stone’s angle toward the dock. Pepper dictates observations while Ezra writes them in her notebook.

The canoe bumps lightly against its rope. Pepper’s gaze follows it.

“No,” I say.

“I didn’t ask.”

“You were about to.”