4. Roman Osprey
Roman Osprey
The road to Scarlet Sage’s house narrows until it barely deserves to be called one.
By the time Wes turns the SUV off the main highway, Sweetheart Haven’s festival charm has faded behind us.
The flower baskets are the first to go, then the pastel storefronts, replaced by long stretches of marsh grass and live oaks draped heavily in Spanish moss.
Water glints through the tree line in flashes, while the swamp presses steadily closer to the road, dark and watchful beneath the afternoon heat.
“This feels like the beginning of a documentary where the narrator eventually goes missing,” Wes says.
I glance over from the passenger seat. “You say that every time we leave city limits.”
“Because nature has made its position on humanity very clear.”
The dirt road dips before curving around a stand of cypress trees, and the house comes into view.
It practically grows out of the landscape in pieces.
First the weathered siding, gone silver-gray with age, appears from the trees.
Then comes the wraparound porch, draped in drying herbs and wind chimes made from river glass.
Wildflowers crowd the yard in loose tangles beside rusted planters, and climbing roses have long since conquered the trellis.
The property sits slightly elevated above the swamp line, connected to the water by a narrow dock that stretches into the reeds and disappears.
It looks less like a house and more like something the land decided to claim.
Wes slows to a stop, and neither of us moves.
We swung by the sheriff’s office first, at Wes’s insistence.
The original plan had been routine introductions and access requests for the regional case files, but we didn’t get that far.
A museum theft call came through over dispatch halfway through our introductions at the front desk, turning the entire station brittle with panic.
In Sweetheart Haven, they treat losing the original Love Stone during festival week like a religious crisis and an economic disaster.
“Well,” I say. “She definitely lives here.”
“That sentence tells me absolutely nothing.”
“I know. I’m still processing.” I step out into the heat. Humidity settles around me, thick enough to taste, and cicadas buzz deeper in the tree line while dark water laps against the dock pilings.
Her scent reaches me before we have taken three steps toward the porch.
It’s layered into the property itself. The same sage, rain, and honey notes from the bakery are fuller here, closer to the source.
I pull it in slow, the way a beta learns to read a space, and find what I was already half expecting.
Scarlet’s scent carries the thinness of an omega who has been running without a pack for long enough that it’s become her normal.
It isn’t acute distress, but more of a low frequency trying to sustain itself on less than it was built for.
Beneath the deprivation runs the warmer thread from the bakery.
Beside me, Wes has gone full alpha. His shoulders have set beneath his shirt, and his breathing has taken on the controlled quality that means his instincts are running ahead of his judgment.
His alpha would have caught the deficit note in her scent before anything else.
His instincts identify need before compatibility, protection before desire.
With Scarlet, those two things have tangled together so tightly, I doubt he could separate them if I asked.
He’s decided she is his to protect, and he has been managing those instincts since the bakery.
I file his reaction away and head toward the porch. “You think she might be involved?” I ask.
“I think she knows something.”
“That wasn’t the question.”
He shuts the door harder than necessary. “I think she lives in a swamp surrounded by ritual plants and suspicious timing.”
I look toward the porch, where bundles of lavender sway in the heavy air. “Herbal drying racks aren’t sufficient probable cause.”
He cuts me a look that suggests he finds my standards dangerously low, and I start up the stairs before he can explain why.
Up close, the house feels even more lived-in than it looked from the road.
Gardening gloves rest beside a watering can near the steps.
Books are stacked against the railing beside a rocking chair with a quilt draped over the arm.
A second quilt is visible through the screen door, folded over the back of the sofa. A third covers the porch swing.
The layered textiles belong to a person who has surrounded herself with softness the way someone else might surround themselves with company.
I recognize the pattern. An omega without regular pack contact builds a tactile environment to compensate, accumulating weight and texture.
Her body demands a pack, and she has found the closest available answer.
Her loneliness has seeped into the house so that every cozy corner oozes longing.
Wes knocks once against the screen door.
Movement sounds from inside, followed by Scarlet’s voice. “If that’s another tourist asking whether the Love Stone grants fertility blessings during the springs ritual, the answer is absolutely not and also deeply concerning.”
The screen door swings open.
She pauses when she sees us. Her green eyes assess us with suspicion, but the color catches against the swamp light bright enough to disrupt every useful thought in my head.
She traded her dress for worn denim shorts, an oversized cream sweater slipping off one shoulder, and bare feet on the old wood.
Her auburn hair hangs loose around her face, softer than it was in town.
Her scent warms when she takes us in.
Next to me, Wes is working to contain his reaction. Being pack-tied to him, I feel the current beneath his controlled posture. Coursing between us is his desire, his need to protect, and his alpha urge to move closer. The feelings run together before he can sort them into any useful order.
I’m not doing much better.
Scarlet leans one shoulder against the doorframe. “Well, the federal government works fast.”
“That’s not usually what people say about us,” Wes says.
Her gaze shifts toward me, softening slightly before she catches herself and straightens. “What do you want?”
“You left before we finished talking,” Wes says.
“That sounds like a personal problem.”
“It became a professional one when your name got involved at the sheriff’s office.”
Her eyes tighten. I study her expression for guilt and find none.
“Why would the sheriff be involved?”
Wes watches her for one long beat before answering. “The Love Stone was stolen this morning.”
The swamp seems to pull inward around us.
Scarlet’s expression collapses. “That’s not funny.”
“Nobody’s joking,” Wes says, his voice lower than usual.
She looks past us toward the road, as if the answer might be waiting there instead. “The actual stone? From Heritage Hall?”
“Yes,” I reply.
“When?”
“Within the last few hours.”
Her hand tightens against the edge of the screen door before she releases it. “Wow,” she says quietly. “That’s catastrophically bad timing.”
“That’s one way to put it,” Wes says.
Her eyes cut back toward him. “You think I took it.”
“According to dispatch, your name was on the museum visitor log this morning.”
“Because I was at the museum this morning.”
“That’s usually how visitor logs work,” I say.
She cuts me a look. “You’re significantly more charming when you’re not helping.”
“I’ve heard that before.”
The corner of her mouth twitches.
What sits under her composure is not defensiveness. She might be afraid of what the theft means, but she doesn’t appear afraid we will discover she caused it. That reads as sincere enough that my assessment shifts several degrees.
Wes continues to struggle beside me. His instincts are running hot, and he is actively choosing not to act on any of them. His hands flex once at his sides, and his breathing has gone shallow.
I brush my knuckles against the back of his hand. He glances at me.
Breathe, the touch says.
He takes a deep inhale before turning back toward Scarlet. “You know something about the stone,” he says.
Her laugh comes a beat too fast. “Everyone in town grows up hearing stories about the stone.”
Wes shakes his head. “You know what I mean.”
The air between them shifts, in the way it does when two people are standing close enough to a live wire that they can feel the heat before making contact. From where I stand, I feel it too. Her scent changes with the sexual tension, the thinness sharpening into warm sage and honey.
Wes’s shoulders lower a fraction in response.
Scarlet holds his gaze for one second too long and steps back from the doorway. “Fine. You can ask your questions.” She points at Wes before he can look satisfied. “But only if I get something in return.”
“That’s not how investigations work.”
“Then maybe your investigations need better incentives.”
I lean against the porch railing. “What kind of incentive?”
Her green eyes sharpen with the first real mischief I’ve seen since the bakery. “Tarot.”
The humor drains from Wes’s face while I fail to hide my amusement.
“No,” he says.
Scarlet shrugs. “Then no questions.”
“That’s not a real negotiation.”
“Neither is showing up at my house, implying I committed grand theft of a priceless piece of folklore, and yet here we are.”
“We didn’t imply anything.”
“You brought backup jawlines and investigative tension to my porch.” She tilts her head. “The implication was there.”
I cough into my fist. Wes doesn’t look at me because he knows what my face is doing.
“What’s the matter?” Scarlet asks, her tone going light in the way that means she knows exactly what she is doing. “Scared of a few cards?”
“I’m skeptical of life decisions made on the basis of laminated artwork.”
“Wow,” she says softly. “That sounds deeply personal.”
“It’s practical.”
“Same thing, just in dad sneakers.”