10. Roman Osprey
Roman Osprey
The swamp turns thick and breathless before the rain arrives. Humidity presses against Scarlet’s old house in waves, while clouds gather low over the trees beyond her property.
Wes left twenty minutes ago to meet Tom and Myrtle back at Heritage Hall regarding the disabled camera system and the updated theft timeline.
Judging by the tension in his shoulders before he walked out the door, he would’ve preferred wrestling an alligator barehanded to leaving Scarlet and me here to finish logging the evidence without him.
Personally, I find that flattering.
Scarlet stands barefoot at the kitchen counter, flipping through one of her grandmother’s notebooks while I transfer photographs from the swamp site onto my tablet.
Her hair remains damp from the shower she took after we returned from town, her dark-auburn waves curling down her back beneath a cropped white tank top and sleep shorts embroidered with tiny strawberries.
The shorts are deeply at odds with her haunted-swamp-witch reputation, and I enjoy them immensely.
“You’re smiling at me again,” she says without looking up.
“I’m a man of many faces.”
“I bet.” She lets a smile slip. “Judging by your charm, I imagine many questionable choices.”
“That too.”
Thunder rumbles softly outside.
The kitchen smells like rain, coffee grounds, and the jasmine candle Scarlet lit an hour ago, before pretending she didn’t care whether the house felt welcoming.
My gaze drifts toward the stacks of notebooks spread across the table.
She has dozens of them. Some are bound neatly in leather, while others are held together with rubber bands and water-warped paper.
Botanical sketches fill the margins beside maps of the swamp and handwritten notes about local bonds.
Scarlet catches me looking. “You’re thinking I need a hobby.”
“I’m thinking you organize emotional catastrophes with deceptively cheerful penmanship and detailed illustrations.”
“It’s hereditary.” She closes the notebook in her hands and leans back against the counter, studying me over the rim of her glass. “You joke when you’re uncomfortable,” she says.
“That’s coming from a woman who threatened the sheriff while being interrogated.”
“He deserved it.”
“He probably did.”
Rain taps softly against the windows.
Scarlet watches it for a moment before speaking again. “Your family big on emotional repression too?”
It’s said as a casual joke, but there’s truth in it. She’s careful in her curiosity, wrapping it in enough humor to pull back if the answer turns out to be the wrong kind of honesty.
I lean back in the chair and rotate the tablet slowly between my hands. “My parents were bonded for twenty-six years.”
Her brows furrow with concern, telling me more about her than she probably intended.
“My father believed every room should feel as tense as he did,” I say. “My mother dealt with that by deciding every argument was temporary until eventually there was only hostile silence.”
Scarlet lowers her glass slowly. “They stayed together?”
“Oh, absolutely. Miserably. With life-long commitment.”
A laugh escapes her before she can catch it. It’s rich and real, the kind that sounds surprised at itself.
Warmth unfurls in my chest. I keep going before I start examining it too carefully. “You learn to read people quickly in houses like that. Tone changes. Breathing patterns. The difference between quiet because everybody’s comfortable and quiet because the next wrong word is going to start a fight.”
Her smile fades carefully around the edges. “That’s a depressing childhood skill.”
“Turns out it’s useful professionally.”
“That’s not the same thing.”
No. It isn’t.
Rain thickens outside, drumming harder against the porch roof. Scarlet moves toward the old icebox and pulls out a pitcher of sweet tea before pausing midway through pouring herself more. “You want some?”
The question carries more hope than an offer of tea should. She’s opening a small door and waiting to see whether I’ll walk through it.
“Yes.”
When she hands me the drink, our fingers brush. Her breath catches shallow in her throat, and her scent shifts in the way it does when her omega answers before she can hide it.
My beta registers the pull between us and the way her sweetness threads through the kitchen air. The instinct is calmer than an alpha’s and considerably more patient, a low, steady recognition, like tuning into a frequency that has been there the whole time.
My thumb passes once across the side of her finger. “Still okay?”
Her green eyes meet mine. “Yes.”
The single word warms her scent further. I take the glass before either of us turns the kitchen counter into a place neither of us can pretend is neutral afterward.
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.” Her voice is softer than usual.
I take a long sip of tea. “For the record, Wes absolutely believes these notebooks are a threat to national security.”
Scarlet snorts softly and moves toward the back door. “Wes thinks most things are a security vulnerability.”
“He had hobbies once.”
“I don’t believe that.”
“He restores old motorcycles.”
She blinks at me. “That somehow makes him more intimidating.”
“Correct.”
Another low roll of thunder moves through the swamp.
Scarlet pushes open the screen door. “Come on.”
“Where are we going?”
“The dock, before the mosquitoes unionize.”
The rain has eased into warm mist by the time we step outside. Cypress trees sway gently beyond the yard, while soft lantern light runs along the narrow wooden walkway toward the water. Scarlet has hung fresh jars along the railing since yesterday, fireflies drifting slow and bright inside them.
“You caught lightning bugs.”
“Can’t a swamp witch be full of whimsy?”
The laugh that comes out of me is sincere enough that she looks satisfied, which is its own reward.
The dock stretches quiet beneath the storm clouds. Water laps softly against the pilings while frogs call somewhere deep in the reeds. Scarlet lowers herself onto the edge first, dangling her bare feet above the water.
I sit beside her, close enough that our shoulders touch.
She glances at the contact.
I give her time to move, but she stays.
“You grew up here?” I ask.
She nods slowly. “Mostly.”
The wind lifts strands of hair across her cheek.
“My parents weren’t bonded,” she says after a moment. “They loved each other, but not like this place expects.” Her fingers trace absent patterns against the dock wood. “They died when I was little, boat accident during storm season.”
“I’m sorry.”
She shrugs once, but grief moves differently through the body than indifference does. I see it in the tension that remains around her mouth after the shrug is finished.
“My grandmother raised me out here.” She gestures toward the swamp. “I learned plants before algebra, which honestly feels more useful now.”
“Debatable in certain professional contexts.”
She shakes her head in amusement before turning serious. “In some ways, it was easier out here.” Her mouth curves faintly. “You know, the first time I knew a bond was wrong, I was nine.”
I can’t help the slipped gasp of surprise. She keeps going anyway.
“There was a couple near the springs during festival season. Everybody loved them. Perfect sweetheart story.” Her mouth twists. “The omega cried every time her alpha left the room. Everybody thought it was romantic.”
I can already see where the story is going.
“I asked my grandmother why someone looked that scared if they were supposed to be in love.” She rubs her palms slowly against her thighs. “Three days later, the bond fractured.”
Rainwater drips steadily from the cypress branches overhead. The water below us holds the last light.
“No one forgot after that,” she says.
The loneliness in her voice belongs to a person who has spent years being the thing people fear. I don’t think the townspeople dislike her because of anything she did. They dislike that she notices what is already wrong before anyone else is ready to admit it.
“You were a child.”
“Sweetheart Haven doesn’t really factor that in.”
I bet.
A mosquito lands against her shoulder. I brush it away without thinking, my fingers sliding briefly across her warm skin.
Her breath catches, and she turns her head slowly toward mine. “You flirt like a man trying not to admit he’s doing it.”
“I’m emotionally complicated.”
“That sounds like a medical condition.”
“Possibly terminal.”
The smile she gives me is small and unguarded, in a way I suspect she doesn’t offer most people.
The wind lifts another strand across her cheek. This time I move slowly enough that she can stop me. My fingers brush the hair away from her face, skimming the warm curve of her cheek, before tucking it behind her ear.
The contact is almost nothing, but her scent tells a different story. Honey warms through rain and sage, softening in the space between us until I lean toward her with a quiet, certain ache.
Scarlet’s eyes search mine. “Are you always this careful?”
“No.”
That answer costs more than a joke would have.
Her fingers still against the dock boards, close enough to mine that the space between us becomes a choice.
I turn my hand palm up. It’s an offer.
For one long breath, she only looks at it. The swamp moves around us, frogs calling in the reeds, fireflies drifting in their jars, and rainwater falling from cypress branches into dark water.
Then Scarlet sets her hand in mine. Her fingers are cool from the damp air, but her palm is warm. I close my hand around hers gently, and her breath leaves in a rush she doesn’t try to disguise.
For a moment she lets me see the omega she hides so fiercely. I brush my thumb along her knuckles. Her shoulders lower.
“This is dangerous,” she says softly.
“The dock?”
“The way you’re looking at me like you see me.”
My chest tightens. “I do.”
Her gaze drops briefly to my mouth.
“And I don’t want to look away,” I say.
I lift her hand and press my mouth to her knuckles.
Her lashes flutter. Every sharp edge of her softens for one second.
When I lower her hand, I keep hold of it. “You can tell me to stop.”
She doesn’t.
I give her one more breath to reconsider, then lean closer.
Scarlet closes the distance first.
Her mouth touches mine carefully, a question made of warm lips.
I answer slowly, letting her decide whether the kiss deepens or ends.
She chooses deeper. Her free hand slides into my hair, and her careful touch turns hungry enough to pull a rough sound from me.
I cup the side of her neck, thumb beneath her jaw, feeling the frantic beat of her pulse.
She purrs. The vibration is small and startled, breaking against my mouth. Scarlet pulls back half an inch, her eyes wide.
I press my forehead to hers. “That’s beautiful.”
Heat floods her face. “You heard nothing.”
“I heard an omega who liked being kissed.”
“You’re suddenly very confident.”
“I have evidence.”
She kisses me again to stop the argument. I’m entirely willing to lose that way.
The screen door slams up at the house.
Wes strides down the dock, carrying two paper bags and wearing the expression of a man running on instinct.
Scarlet turns toward him with delight, her hand still wrapped around mine and her mouth pink from kissing. “Our emotional support alpha returns.”
Wes stops three feet away. “You skipped dinner.”
His eyes move to Scarlet at the edge of the dock first, measuring the distance between her and the water and checking her steadiness before he’s consciously registered the rest.
Then he scents her.