15. Scarlet Sage
Scarlet Sage
The morning after the storm, I wake in my own bed, with cedar on my pillow and warm spice caught in the blanket around my legs.
I close my eyes again. This would be easier if my body had any interest in dignity.
My omega is recognizing their scent mixture as the safety of pack and has stopped listening to any arguments otherwise.
Heat crawls over my skin as I inhale the warmth of their scents.
I slide one hand beneath the blanket. The cotton of my sleep shorts is already wet when my fingers press between my thighs.
My breath catches as I remember Wes’s hands, Roman’s mouth, and the low certainty in their voices when they told me I could ask for what I wanted.
My fingers circle my clit.
I remember what Roman sounds like when his control slips. I think about the way Wes watches my face when he touches me. I shiver at the memory of being held between them.
I’m close when voices drift up from downstairs.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Wes says.
Roman answers, amused. “Leaving a key under the mat is a trust exercise.”
“That trust exercise is how people get murdered.”
“Or maybe we’ll get murdered for failing the test.”
Wes calls my name.
The rough edge of his voice moves through me hard enough that my hips jerk into my hand.
Downstairs goes quiet.
I freeze.
A moment later, footsteps sound on the stairs. There’s a soft knock against my bedroom door.
“Scarlet?” Roman’s voice is warm and careful. “I brought coffee.”
My hand remains between my thighs. Apparently, this is who I am now. “You can come in,” I say.
The door opens slowly. Roman steps inside, carrying my favorite mug.
His dark-blond hair is still rumpled from sleep, and the long sleeves of his brown shirt are pushed to his elbows.
Cardamom and cinnamon fill the room. His gaze moves from my face to the hand hidden beneath the blanket. “Do you want me to leave?”
The answer should require more thought. “No.”
Roman sets the coffee on my bedside table. Then he waits.
I swallow. “Come here.”
He sits on the edge of the mattress without touching me. “Tell me what you want.”
My face heats, despite everything we’ve already done. “I was almost there.”
His eyes darken. “Do you want to finish yourself?”
The question gives me an easy escape. I shake my head.
“Do you want my hand?”
“Yes.”
Roman leans closer. “Anything else?”
I look at his mouth.
Understanding warms his expression. “Ask me,” he says softly.
“I want your mouth too.”
His smile is slow and devastating. “Good, because I want to taste you.”
He kisses me first. He licks the seam of my lips and sweeps his tongue against mine, while his hand slides beneath the blanket.
I gasp into the kiss when he covers my hand.
Roman guides my fingers once over my clit, then replaces them with his. “What were you thinking about that made you so wet?” His thumb circles slowly, exactly where I need it.
I pretend not to hear the question.
Roman chuckles. “I bet I can guess.” He kisses along my jaw and down my throat, his free hand pushing the blanket aside. Cool morning air reaches my bare legs before his mouth follows.
He pauses at the waistband of my shorts and looks at me for confirmation.
I nod with more enthusiasm than I like.
He pulls them down slowly, giving me time to change my mind. When I don’t, Roman settles between my thighs and kisses the inside of one knee. Then the other. The patience of it makes my body tighten with need.
“Roman.”
“I’ve got you.” His mouth closes over my clit.
Pleasure hits so sharply that my hand flies into his hair.
He groans against me, and the vibration drags a purr from my chest. Roman works me with the same focused attention he brings to everything else.
His tongue circles, then presses flat while two fingers slide through my slick. When one pushes inside, my hips lift.
“That’s it,” he says against me. “Let me take care of you.”
He fucks me slowly with his fingers as he sucks my clit.
My orgasm gathers fast. I grip his hair and come with his name breaking out of me, thighs shaking around his shoulders.
Roman eases me through the sensitivity, his mouth gentling until my body loosens beneath him.
Then he kisses his way back up my stomach.
I’m still trying to remember language when he lies beside me and brushes hair from my face.
“You with me?”
“Yes.”
His thumb brushes my lower lip. I turn my head and kiss his palm. The softness in his gaze feels more intimate than his mouth between my thighs.
A floorboard creaks in the hallway.
Roman glances toward the door, then back at me. I don’t need anyone to explain what the sound means. Wes heard me. Heat moves through my scent.
Roman smiles but doesn’t tease. “Coffee’s getting cold.” He kisses me once more before standing.
I catch his wrist. “Roman.”
He looks down.
“Thank you.”
His expression changes. Less amused. More tender. “You never have to thank me for wanting you.” He leaves me with coffee and no remaining argument against the fact that this is becoming real.
The shower is supposed to restore basic function. Instead, steam pulls cedar and cinnamon spice from my skin.
I wash quickly, get dressed, and spend the rest of the morning refusing to look directly at Wes. The worst part is that when I climb into the truck thirty minutes later, my body settles at the sound of his breathing anyway.
Forty-five minutes later, Wes parks outside Sweet Tooth.
Half of Sweetheart Haven looks ready to riot over pastries. People are panic-buying love cakes. That should not be a sentence anyone has to live through.
I step out and smooth my hands over my brightly colored skirt. Tiny flowers are stitched along the hem, paired with a fitted velvet top and a wide tan belt. I felt human when I left the house, but the way people stare makes every stitch feel like evidence.
Wes’s hand settles near the small of my back. “Stay beside us.”
“Bossy before breakfast. Brave choice.”
Roman appears on my other side with the field satchel. “He’s bossy after breakfast too.”
“That’s true,” Wes says.
I look between them. “Was that teamwork?”
“We’ve been rehearsing,” Roman says. His gaze meets mine for half a second.
My body remembers his mouth, and my cheeks heat.
Wes opens the bakery door.
Warm air spills out in a wave of cinnamon, espresso, honey, and stressed omega pheromones. The line wraps halfway around the room. Tourists clutch pink boxes while locals gather in tense clusters.
Behind the counter, a chalkboard reads 6 Days Until the Month of Heart.
Someone scratched a line through the painted heart.
Junie spots me. Relief flashes across her face before worry buries it. “Scarlet.”
Half the bakery turns.
Mrs. Delaney sits near the window with two other shop owners. Her gaze moves from me to Wes and Roman. “I suppose the investigators have picked their side.”
Wes shifts beside me. I touch his forearm before he can respond. His brown eyes drop toward the contact, then lift toward my face.
Roman clears his throat. “Coffee first. Public-relations disaster second.”
Honey points tongs at him. “Best idea I’ve heard all morning.”
We reach the counter as Junie slides an iced coffee toward me. “You look like you’re about to bite somebody.”
“I’m narrowing the list.”
Honey sets down a honey cake. “Eat before you commit crimes.”
“I miss when our friendship involved less supervision.”
“No, you don’t.”
I really don’t.
Roman leans against the counter. “Town seems lively.”
Junie gives him a look. “Lively is when church ladies argue about raffle baskets. This is panic with frosting.”
Honey lowers her voice. “People are canceling ceremonies.”
I glance toward the countdown board.
Wes’s shoulders shift. “How many?”
“Eight since yesterday.”
Eight. Damn.
Junie shakes her head. “People keep asking if the rituals still work without the stone.”
“It never worked because of the stone,” I mutter.
Mrs. Delaney hears me. “Easy for you to say.”
The room goes dead silent.
Honey steps forward. “Not today, Beatrice.”
Mrs. Delaney rises anyway. “My niece came here because this town protects bonds. Now the stone is gone and she keeps showing up wherever trouble starts.”
She means me. A familiar grief stirs in my bones.
Wes steps beside me. “She’s assisting an active investigation.”
Mrs. Delaney laughs. “Or leading it away from herself.”
Before anyone can answer, a sharp whine cuts across the bakery.
Every omega in the room reacts, including me. I turn and find a young woman standing near the window tables. It’s Lena, at least I think that’s her name. She’s the same omega I noticed earlier this week. One hand is pressing against her chest while her alpha reaches toward her carefully.
“Lena, baby.”
She recoils like he’s threatened her. “Don’t.”
Confusion moves across his face. The beta rises slowly from his chair. “We aren’t leaving you.”
Her eyes fill instantly. “Yes, you are.”
“No, baby. No,” the beta pleads.
“You already did.” She sobs, the sound so gut-wrenching that nausea rolls through me.
The alpha goes pale. “Lena, what are you talking about?”
“I heard you.” Her voice breaks. The bond between them twists sharply against my awareness, wrong in the way a note played off-key is wrong.
The alpha takes a careful step forward, his voice steady and reassuring. “You didn’t hear anything. We were planning lunch.”
Lena’s breathing becomes ragged. “You told her.”
“Told who?”
“Her.” Lena points toward a confused woman standing near the pastry case. “You wanted her. You’ve wanted her for months.”
The omega at the pastry case gasps. “I’ve never spoken to your alpha.”
“You don’t have to lie anymore,” Lena says, voice trembling.
The beta moves slowly toward Lena, low and careful. “Lena, sweetheart, look at me.”
“No.” Tears spill down her cheeks. “You both decided already.”
“We didn’t.”
“You left me.”
“We’re right here.”
The pain behind my eyes spikes hard enough to make me grip the counter. Her pack’s loving intentions are being twisted into betrayal. Every reassurance they offer her is being read as proof of guilt. This doesn’t feel like a relationship problem but more like the bond isn’t showing her what’s real.
It’s going to crack under the pressure of her fear.
Roman sees it too, not the bond itself like I do but the rising panic. “Everyone, give them space.”
People hesitate.
Lena turns. Her shoulder clips a table, and a vase crashes to the floor, glass spreading across the tile.
The alpha lunges after her, but Wes catches him. “Stop.”
“Let me go,” the alpha pleads.
“If you chase her right now, you’ll make it worse.”
The alpha looks ready to fight him. I step forward before I can stop myself. “She’s not herself. She can’t see what you’re doing, only what she’s afraid of.”
The words leave my mouth, and the entire bakery turns toward me.
Lena sobs near the door, clearly torn and on the edge of bolting. The bell above it trembles.
Roman lowers himself several feet away from her, unhurried, making himself small. His hazel eyes stay soft and level, gentle enough not to threaten and steady enough to follow. “Lena. I’m Roman. I’m not pack. I’m not going to touch you.”
Her breathing stutters.
Her beta kneels on her other side. “Lena. Look at me.”
The bond shudders. My vision blurs briefly, then a hand settles against my lower back.
Wes. He’s still holding the alpha with one hand, grounding me with the other. His thumb presses into the fabric of my shirt in steady, deliberate circles, and it allows the room to sharpen again.
Roman guides Lena through each breath while her beta talks her slowly back from the edge. It takes nearly ten minutes. By the end, her alpha looks destroyed. Honey is crying behind the counter, and Junie has gone pale.
Mrs. Delaney stares at me with open hostility backed by fear.
Then someone whispers it. “She knew.”
The words move through the bakery like water finding cracks.
“She knew what was happening.”
“She always knows.”
“She caused this.”
“Bondbreaker.”
An old childhood wound that didn’t fully scar reopens.
Wes turns. His expression moves through the room faster than shouting ever could, and nobody speaks.
Roman rises slowly and looks at me. “Scarlet.”
My hands are shaking, but I pick up my coffee. “Well. This probably didn’t help my reputation.”
Nobody laughs. That’s fair.
Wes steps closer, his voice dropping below the volume in the room. “You’re done here.”
“I’m not a loaf of bread.”
His gaze moves across my face, my hands, and the exhaustion I apparently failed to hide. “You look like you’re still standing out of spite.”
That is offensively accurate.
Roman gently removes the coffee from my grip before I can crush it. “Come on, little menace.”
I urge to argue is overwhelming. But Wes’s hand remains at my back, and Roman stands at my other side, and for a moment, I let myself stay bracketed between them. I’m held in place by two people who showed up this morning without being asked and have stayed every hour since.
Safe. Wanted. Terrifying. In that order.
We step outside to festival banners snapping in the humid breeze. There are six days until the Month of Heart. And now half of Sweetheart Haven has watched me name the break before anyone else understood what they were witnessing.
The town doesn’t need proof to decide what I am. It never has.