12. Scarlet Sage
Scarlet Sage
The empty hush puppy tray is still sitting in my sink the next morning. I stare at it, trying very hard not to examine the evidence of them, while coffee drips slow and dark into the pot beside me.
Wes’s jacket hangs over the back of one of my kitchen chairs. Dark canvas, heavy with the scents of rainwater, cedar, and whatever soap he uses that makes my omega want to purr while making catastrophically bad decisions.
The quilt from the couch has joined my collection.
I carried the blanket into the kitchen without noticing sometime after dawn, wrapped it around my shoulders, and only realized what I had done when Wes’s scent rose from the fabric.
Roman’s spice clings beneath it. So does the memory of his mouth against mine, Wes’s hands between my thighs, and the absurd number of times they made me come before I lost the ability to form respectable opinions.
My body feels tender in places I’ve spent years pretending don’t require attention.
The most alarming part is that neither man treated what happened like an accident.
Cicadas scream near the marsh while my ancient box fan rattles against the kitchen floor, pretending to be useful against the swamp heat.
A truck door slams. My pulse gives one hard kick before I can stop it.
It’s only slightly humiliating how quickly I started anticipating them.
On my way to the door, a flash of dark purple catches my eye beneath the arm of the couch.
One of Mrs. Delaney’s crocheted scarves is wedged between the cushion and the wood, the first one Honey bought me and the one I haven’t been able to find in nearly two years.
I touch the soft yarn once, then leave it where it is.
I have no explanation for how it got there, and this morning I’m not looking for one.
I step onto the porch just as Wes rounds the hood of his truck. He’s in a gray T-shirt today, with sunglasses hooked into the collar and his hair still damp at the temples.
Roman climbs out beside him, carrying a cardboard drink tray, and grins when he spots me wrapped in the quilt. “You look thoughtful,” he says.
“I was considering throwing both of you back into the swamp.”
“Affectionately?”
“Violently.”
“That’s my girl.”
The words stop all three of us.
Roman’s smile softens. He climbs the steps and stops in front of me. “Too much?” he asks.
The easy way he always checks in with honest curiosity loosens the pressure in my chest. “No,” I admit. “Just unexpected.”
“Good unexpected?”
I narrow my eyes. “Don’t become greedy before breakfast.”
He laughs, cups my cheek, and waits until I lean forward first. His kiss is soft and brief, sweetened by coffee. It’s nothing like the hungry way he kissed me last night, but my body remembers anyway. Warmth stirs low in my belly, followed by a softer satisfaction when his thumb brushes my cheek.
When he steps aside, Wes is watching me. His attention moves over my face, the quilt, and the careful way I’m standing. “Morning,” he says.
That simple word should not be so devastating. It lands low and warm enough that my legs involuntary squeeze to force pressure on my clit.
“Morning.” I’m pretending that wasn’t a squeak.
He reaches the top step but doesn’t crowd me. “You sore?”
Heat climbs straight into my face.
Roman becomes fascinated by the labels on the coffee cups.
“You can’t ask that like you’re checking whether I pulled a muscle gardening.”
“I can ask however gets an answer.”
“Yes,” I say through my teeth. “A little.”
Wes nods once. The smug alpha satisfaction I expect doesn’t come, but his scent deepens. “Anything hurt?”
“No.”
“Anything you didn’t like?”
His question strips away the last easy joke I could use to hide behind. I look from Wes to Roman. “No.”
Wes’s gaze remains steady. “Last night wasn’t a mistake.”
My heart softens so fast, it’s embarrassing. “I didn’t say it was.”
“You’ve been standing here preparing an argument against one.”
“That’s an invasive amount of accuracy before caffeine.”
Roman holds out the tray. “Fortunately, we planned for that.”
“You already brought coffee yesterday.”
“Peace offering, for taking your time again today. This one has cinnamon.”
Wes watches my mouth when I take the first sip.
I know what his mouth feels like now. I also know how carefully he treats me.
He lifts one hand and pauses before touching me. “Can I?”
I nod.
His knuckles brush a loose strand of hair from my cheek before he leans close and drags a slow breath near my temple. Then his cheek moves lightly against my hair. Cedar settles over me.
The scent mark is intimate enough to ruin my concentration, but now I understand the offer inside it. He’s leaving comfort for me to carry when we step into town. My eyes close for half a second.
Wes’s voice drops. “Better?”
“Yes.”
When I open my eyes, Roman is smiling into his coffee.
“Don’t,” I warn.
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You’re thinking loudly.”
Wes steps back before I decide whether I want him close again. The air feels thinner without him, but not empty. Their scents remain on the quilt and my skin.
My purr sounds once, short and low. I pretend the cicadas did it.
Wes clears his throat. “Tom called this morning. After the residue inside the display case came back relevant to GatorX, he agreed we have enough overlap to share the museum timeline. That led to finding out the restoration records were accessed two weeks before the theft.”
Reality shatters the warmth of the morning.
“By whom?”
“Guest archive request under a false name.” He leans one shoulder against the porch railing. “The records included blueprints from the Heritage Hall remodel.”
Roman sets the drink tray on the porch swing. “Myrtle also found missing pages from archive files connected to the original sweetheart rites. Same request name.”
“That’s not suspicious at all,” I mutter. My stomach tightens faintly. “Nobody pulls those records unless they already know what they’re looking for.”
I glance toward the swamp beyond the yard. Spanish moss sways slow between the cypress trees while dragonflies skim atop the water.
Roman nods. “Which means whoever took the Love Stone prepared before entering the museum.”
“We need to see the request forms,” I say.
“We will,” Wes answers.
“And the missing pages?”
“We know what files they came from, not what was on them. But it was with other ceremonial records.”
“We need to visit the springs,” I say.
Wes studies me over the rim of his coffee. “To see if someone has been using the ritual sites?”
“Exactly.”
His gaze sharpens slightly. “What are you thinking?”
“I’m not sure yet. But we should stop at Dupree’s roadside stand first. He’s got ritual supplies.”
Roman brightens. “Roadside produce?”
“You say that like it’s significant,” I say.
“It’s significant.”
Wes rolls his eyes. “You were raised in Connecticut.”
“And yet I still deserve peaches.”
Roman settles onto the porch swing and pats the space beside him. “Drink your coffee before it becomes another crime scene.”
“I’m capable of standing and drinking.”
“You’re wrapped in a quilt on a ninety-degree morning.”
“That’s unrelated.”
Wes takes the cup from my hand before I can protest and sets it on the railing. Then he studies the quilt. “You took that off the couch.”
“I own the couch.”
“It smells like us.”
My face warms again. “You’ve become very observant.”
“I’m an investigator.”
Roman lifts one brow. “That’s the explanation you’re using?”
Wes ignores him.
I gather the quilt tighter around my shoulders, which is the worst possible response if I’m trying to establish independence.
Roman shifts to make more room, and this time, I sit. The porch swing dips beneath my weight, bringing my thigh against his. His arm settles along the back cushion around me. Wes stays in front of us, one hip against the railing.
For a few seconds, I let myself have the arrangement. Roman’s warmth at my side. Wes’s cedar on my skin. Coffee waiting within reach.
“We should establish one thing,” I say.
Roman looks at me. “Only one?”
“Don’t ruin the moment.”
“I’m listening.”
“Sex doesn’t mean I’ve agreed to a bite or letting either of you rearrange my life.”
Wes answers first. “Understood.”
Roman nods.
That’s the answer I needed. It isn’t romantic. It is, unfortunately, one of the safest things anyone has ever offered me.
I reach for Wes. The choice surprises all of us.
My fingers close around his wrist and pull him the single step separating us.
He comes without resistance. I press my cheek briefly against the inside of his forearm, breathing in cedar where his pulse beats beneath his skin.
Wes goes still in his quiet steady way. Roman’s fingers brush the back of my neck.
I purr again, louder this time. Nobody pretends not to hear it. Wes’s hand settles gently over my hair. Roman kisses my temple. The contact lasts only a few breaths before I release Wes and retrieve my coffee.
“That’s enough emotional growth for one morning.”
Roman smiles. “I’m proud of you.”
“I’ll poison your next drink.”
Wes looks toward the kitchen door. “Get dressed. We’re going to review the archive request. We can stop at the stand and the springs on the way back.”
The command slides pleasantly down my spine. I narrow my eyes at him on principle. “That sounded like an order.”
“It was.”
Roman drinks his coffee. “You seem to like those more now.”
“I will throw both of you into the swamp.”
Neither man looks concerned, which is exactly why I should be.