6. Wes Osprey
Wes Osprey
Scarlet’s fingers disappear inside the sleeve of my coat, while the last of the deputies’ unfamiliar scents cling to the rooms around us. My alpha reacts with entirely too much satisfaction at the fact that Scarlet is wearing my scent.
Tom found nothing, but the search left the house feeling disturbed anyway. Drawers sit slightly wrong. One chair is angled away from the table. A stack of papers I straightened still leans where someone shoved past it.
“Okay means access to the relevant research,” she says. “Not my entire life.”
Roman nods. “Boundaries.”
Some of the strain leaves her scent.
I lean against the edge of the table. “Then I’ve got two rules.”
Scarlet’s eyes narrow. “Of course you have rules.”
“You share anything in your research that could connect to the old rites, the swamp, or the bond failures. We share relevant GatorX patterns and lab findings. Active case details stay protected.”
“And who decides what’s relevant?”
“I do.”
She looks me over slowly. “Naturally.”
Roman hides a smile.
I ignore him. “Second rule. You do not go to old ritual sites or swamp access points alone while half this town is waiting for a reason to blame you.”
Her expression cools. “I’ve gone alone my entire life.”
“That doesn’t make it safe.”
“It made it necessary.”
Her words land like a solid knock to the gut. Roman’s fingers brush the back of my hand, warning me not to push where I have no right.
I change direction. “Tom told us not to trust you,” I say.
“That was direct. Usually people imply it with more local charm.”
“He said every bond collapse in the last five years circles back to you.”
Scarlet tenses.
“Is he wrong?”
“No.” She exhales. “But not for the reason he thinks.”
I wait.
“I know when something is wrong before I can always prove why. Bonds are the easiest because they leave patterns. If one is straining, I feel the pressure of it in my chest. If the bond fracture is close, sometimes nausea and my hands get cold.” She rubs one thumb over the opposite wrist. “But it isn’t only bonds.
Stories can feel wrong too. Or places. I just know when something is untrue, even if everyone else believes it. ”
“And the evidence comes later?” Roman asks.
Scarlet looks at him for a long moment before answering. “Usually.”
Roman does not write anything down. I’m grateful for that.
“It runs in my family,” she continues. “Susannah Sage, one of the women connected to the Everlasting Pack, is in my line.”
I straighten. “The Everlasting Pack?”
“Distantly. My grandmother spent years tracking the old bond stories because she thought the version Sweetheart Haven preserved wasn’t complete.”
“Why?”
Scarlet gives me a tired look. “Because it felt wrong.”
My hackles rise. I don’t know how to mesh tangible evidence with ‘I got a weird feeling.’ I want to believe her but we’re going to need more proof to solve this case than a hunch.
She crosses to the porch and retrieves a notebook from the stack beside the rocking chair. Pages of dates, names, botanical notes, and bond failures crowd the paper.
Roman comes closer. “These are all local?”
“Most of them.”
“And the older ones?”
“My grandmother’s notes.”
I would prefer a clearer answer. My instincts have already determined Scarlet is innocent but that is exactly why I cannot let instinct decide the case. I want her. So does Roman. Our pack is already orienting toward her. None of that gets to become evidence.
“We work together,” I say. “For now.”
Scarlet hugs the notebook against her chest. “That sounds temporary and conditional.”
“It is.” Roman tries to interrupt but I wave him off. “She deserves to have this made clear.”
“At least you’re honest.”
“You share the research. You tell us before you go somewhere connected to the older rites. We share what we can from the GatorX case, and we don’t let Tom turn gossip into evidence.”
“If the evidence doesn’t support it,” she says, brow lifted.
“Correct.”
Her gaze holds mine. “And if it does?”
Roman starts to speak again, but I keep going. “Then I follow it.”
Her mouth tightens.
“I don’t know you yet, Scarlet. Tom being biased doesn’t make you innocent. Neither does me wanting you.”
Heat flickers through her scent.
“Real subtle,” Roman says, shaking his head.
“I wasn’t trying to be subtle.”
Scarlet looks from him to me. “Apparently.”
I hold her gaze. “But I want you to know I’m not going to decide you’re guilty just because this town already has.”
Her posture eases, but it’s not enough to appease the instincts roaring at me. My alpha wants to go to her, to take her in my arms and away from this town.
“Fine,” she says.
It is not trust but at least it is a place to start.
Scarlet shifts the notebook against her chest. “Are you finished making rules now?”
“One more.”
Her eyes narrow. “You said there were two.”
“I changed my mind.”
“That inspires confidence.”
Roman hides a smile behind his palm.
I take a step closer. “If you need space, say it.”
Her mouth parts slightly.
“If you need us closer,” I continue, “say that too.”
Warm honey rises through her scent. “That doesn’t sound like an investigative rule.”
“It isn’t.”
Roman folds his arms. “I personally think this is his best brain work.”
Scarlet looks at him. “The rule benefits you.”
“I promise to make you the beneficiary if you give me a chance.”
Her mouth curves, and some of the tension left behind by Tom finally gives way.
My instincts tell me I should take it a step further. I want to close the space between us, pull her against my chest, and replace every unfamiliar scent in this house with ours. I lift one hand but keep it between us. “Can I?”
Scarlet looks at my hand, then at me. She knows what I’m asking.
Her nod is small but clear.
I move slowly enough that she can change her mind. My fingers catch one loose auburn strand near her cheek and tuck it behind her ear. My knuckles brush warm, freckled skin. Cedar rises around us before I can completely contain it.
Scarlet’s eyes flutter closed for half a second. The depleted edge in her scent softens.
Every instinct I have tells me to keep going.
I want to brush my scent across her temple and cup her neck until she feels secure.
I want Roman at her other side, our omega between us until she is surrounded by the steadiness she keeps reaching toward and denying herself. She isn’t ready, so I let my hand fall.
Scarlet opens her eyes. “That rule seems poorly designed.”
“Why?”
“It rewards honesty.”
Roman laughs. “Terrible system.”
“You’ll survive.”
“Questionable,” she says.
Her humor helps, but the case is still sitting like an elephant between us.
I look toward the kitchen window. Late-afternoon light stretches across the yard. Shit.
The fountain.
I turn back to Scarlet. “What happens to the offerings at night?”
She blinks at the change in direction. “What?”
“The flowers. How long do they stay on the fountain?”
“They don’t.”
Roman straightens.
“Festival maintenance clears wilted offerings and resets the display,” she says. “Usually in the evening.”
“Usually?”
“Depends how busy the square is. Why?”
“I want a sample before somebody throws those lilies into a trash bag.”
Scarlet looks toward the clock. “Then you need to go now.”
Roman is already reaching for his keys.
I point at Scarlet. “You stay here.”
Her eyebrows rise.
I reconsider the phrasing before she can start a fight. “For tonight.” I tack on, “Please.”
“Marginally better.”
“Tom just searched your house, the town is watching you, and we know nothing about whoever took the Love Stone. I’d rather not advertise that you’re helping us before we understand what we’re dealing with.”
She studies me.
“Fine,” she says at last. “But if you find the lilies, don’t let anyone rinse them or dump them into one evidence bag with the other flowers. Separate them.”
Roman points at her. “Smart.”
“I have my moments.”
I reach for the screen door, then stop. Scarlet is still wearing my jacket. She notices where I’m looking and curls her covered fingers farther into the sleeves.
Satisfaction hits hard enough that I have to bury it beneath a breath. “Keep it.”
Her scent warms again.
Roman catches my eye as he passes me. He is going to be unbearable about this later.
At the door, I look back at Scarlet. “Lock up after us.”
“So bossy,” she says, but there is no real censure in it. She gives a small wave. “Come early. We keep swamp hours around here.”
I know we are too late before we reach the stone.
The offerings have been rearranged. Fresh roses and peonies cover the ledge, but the pale swamp lilies Scarlet described are gone.
Roman circles the fountain once. “Nothing.”
I stop beside the maintenance worker loading wilted flowers into black bags. “Did you clear this display earlier today?”
The beta glances at my credentials. “About an hour ago.”
“Were there swamp lilies mixed in?”
He frowns. “Not that I remember. Anything wilted went in the bags, but I wasn’t looking for anything specific.”
Three identical black bags are already tied shut beneath discarded cups, ribbon, and festival trash in his cart.
Roman comes to stand beside me. “Can we take them?”
“Be my guest.” The worker gestures toward the bags. “But they’re mixed with everything from the square.”
We photograph the fountain, document the cleared display, and take the bags anyway. None of it gives us a clean sample tied to the flowers Scarlet saw this morning.
By the time we return to the SUV, dusk has begun settling between the storefronts.
Roman closes the passenger door and looks at me. “So where next?” He gives me his best shit-eating grin. “Sweetheart Haven has some lovely options for bonded pairs.”
“Don’t start.”