4. Roman Osprey #2
I laugh, properly this time. Wes looks at me with the expression of a man reconsidering our partnership.
She folds her arms beneath her sweater, satisfaction settling into her posture. “One reading, then I answer questions.”
“This is manipulation.”
“This is a fair trade.”
“It’s nonsense.”
“And yet,” she says, “you’re still on my porch.”
I think that he is going to turn around and walk back to the SUV. Then he exhales sharply through his nose. “Fine.”
Scarlet blinks. So do I.
She recovers faster than either of us. “Come inside then,” she says and turns before he can see her smile.
The house smells like old books and dried herbs, coffee, and rain-soaked wood.
Afternoon light filters through gauzy curtains, and ceiling fans turn overhead, moving the warm air without cooling it.
Every surface holds something. There are pressed flowers in glass jars, towers of handwritten notes, and old maps pinned beside photographs of Sweetheart Haven before the tourism boom swallowed its original face whole.
A half-finished mug of coffee sits at the kitchen table beside a worn tarot deck. Wes clocks the deck like it’s an imminent threat.
“Relax,” Scarlet says without looking at him. “The cards aren’t going to steal your wallet.”
“I’m more concerned they’ll ask for my birth time.”
“That comes later.”
He mutters under his breath. I take the chair across from Scarlet before Wes can reconsider his agreement and ruin my afternoon. He sits beside me, close enough that our knees touch beneath the table. His hand rests briefly on the back of my chair before settling near his thigh.
Scarlet shuffles the deck with the ease of long practice, her hands moving through the cards with a confidence that contradicts the tension beneath her expression. I watch her the way I watch most things, looking beyond what she shows to what she is actively working to contain.
The threat of the stolen Love Stone remains with her, but another thread runs underneath it.
She is sitting three feet from an alpha, whose biology has been broadcasting in her direction since the bakery, and a beta whose scent answers hers every time she looks at his mouth.
She manages both with occupied hands and practiced composure.
She is not unbothered.
“What exactly are we looking for?” Wes asks.
“You wanted answers,” Scarlet says. “I’m giving you a starting point. The cards don’t solve anything. They help me sort what I already know from what I’m only afraid of.”
“You’re not suggesting cards solve crimes.”
She glances up. “I’m suggesting people tell on themselves constantly.” She spreads the deck face down across the table, breaks it into three smaller piles, and gestures for Wes to reorganize them into one. “Think of your questions first. Then pull three cards and keep them face down.”
Wes stares at the cards with the expression of a man performing enormous internal labor. I pull the three cards myself, to give him time to arrive at his own conclusion without an audience.
My fingers brush Scarlet’s when she steadies the deck. The contact lasts only a second, but her breath catches. Mine does too. Neither of us moves away. Her scent unfurls, honey softening the sage.
Wes’s gaze drops to our hands, then returns to her face. Shared interest moves through our pack bond. Scarlet feels our approval. I can see it in the way her shoulders ease.
She turns the first card over. An emotion crosses her face but disappears before I can read it. She flips the second card, and her posture tightens. Her pulse jumps at the base of her throat, and her scent sharpens with surprise.
Wes leans slightly forward before checking himself, narrowing his attention on her face. “What?” he asks.
“Nothing.” She gathers the cards faster than the reading warrants, stacking them with the concentrated attention of a person putting information away before it says too much.
Wes watches her hands. “What did you see?”
“The cards are impressionistic.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“It’s the honest one.”
I study her while she straightens the deck. She won’t meet Wes’s eyes with the directness she used at the bakery, and her body is tense. Whatever the cards showed her, she wasn’t prepared for it.
Before either of us can press further, footsteps strike the porch hard enough to rattle the wind chimes, and a truck engine cuts outside.
Scarlet closes her eyes. She takes one breath. Then another. When she opens them, the warmth from the card reading has closed behind a practiced, tired expression.
A knock hits the screen door.
“Scarlet. It’s Sheriff Tom Bentley.” His voice carries through the house like he is accustomed to walls obeying him. “Open up.”
Wes is already on his feet.
Scarlet stands slowly, smoothing her hands along the front of her sweater before looking directly at Wes.
Her face is open yet controlled. She wants him to understand before she opens the door.
“They’re going to search the house,” she says rigidly, her voice devoid of emotion.
“And they’re going to think I did it regardless of what they find. ”
The words carry the weight of a fact she has lived with long enough to stop sounding angry about it.
Wes’s expression hardens. His alpha presses against the restraint he keeps it behind, before the change registers across his expression.
The investigator in him recedes, as older and less professional instincts move forward.
I give his forearm a brief squeeze, and Wes reins it in, though his alpha presses into the room.
Scarlet watches us like she’s searching for an answer to a question. I hope what she sees proves that Wes and I hold each other steady.
Her body leans a fraction toward us before she catches herself. Then she crosses to the screen door, pushes it open, and faces whatever is waiting on the other side.
I stay where I am for a moment, looking at the tarot cards she gathered too quickly, the half-finished coffee gone cold, and the quilts visible from every angle of the room.
She saw something in those cards and put it away.
I think I know what it was.