19. Scarlet Sage
Scarlet Sage
The branch cracks again before any of us breathe.
Wes moves first, shifting me off his thigh and putting his body between me and the cypress shadows with the same controlled speed that made me forget danger existed thirty seconds ago. My hands catch at the back of his shirt before my pride can object.
Ollie reaches for the airboat controls, but Wes lifts two fingers without taking his attention from the tree line.
“Wait.”
The swamp answers with insects humming, water licking the boat’s metal side, and leaves whispering overhead.
Every hair along my arms rises.
Ollie leans toward the bank, squinting through the vines. “Could be a gator.”
“Do gators smoke?” Wes asks.
I follow his gaze.
A thin curl of gray rises from behind a cluster of palmettos. Then an orange ember flares briefly through the leaves before another thread of smoke follows.
Wes’s arm remains around my waist. His thumb presses once through the fabric of my skirt, steady and deliberate. “Stay behind me.”
Under other circumstances, I would argue. Given that I’m still wet from grinding against his thigh, the command reaches parts of me that should be concentrating on survival. “That sounded like a decree,” I whisper.
“Field guidance.”
“Terrible disguise.”
His mouth curves for half a second before his focus returns to the bank.
Ollie hooks the boat against a cypress root while Wes steps onto the half-sunken dock. The wood groans beneath his weight but holds. He moves with his weapon low and his eyes scanning the trees, broad shoulders framed by moss and green shadow.
I climb after him before he can tell me not to.
His hand comes back without looking, and I take it. The uneasy fog from the swamp still shudders at the edge of my thoughts, but his grip keeps it from settling again.
A hidden dock sits crooked beneath years of vine growth. Fresh scrapes mark the pilings where the old wood has been rubbed pale. Near the bank, reeds have been cut low in a path wide enough to drag containers through.
Wes crouches near the water. “Recent activity.”
Ollie hops down behind us with less grace and more noise. “Whoever came through knew the east cut. You don’t stumble into this channel unless you’re lost, local, or up to crime.”
“Any chance of all three?”
“In this town? Plenty.”
Wes photographs the scrape marks, the water, and a muddy drag trail leading into the palmettos. I stay close enough that his shoulder brushes my knee when he shifts.
The white ribbon is easy to miss, caught beneath a warped board and stained nearly brown by swamp water.
I crouch and point. “There.”
Wes follows my line of sight. “Don’t touch it.”
“I understand evidence collection.”
His gaze flicks to mine.
Heat moves through me, ridiculous and badly timed.
“I know,” he says.
His simple confidence warms places that have no business participating in a crime scene.
He bags the ribbon with gloved hands.
Beyond the reeds, a cracked waterproof cooler lies half buried in mud. The inside is empty but cleaner than the exterior. Residue clings to the corners. A torn sterile packet sticks to the lid.
Wes studies it without touching the exposed edge. “Medical-grade packaging.”
“Does it match the GatorX material?” I ask.
“The packaging is consistent with prior GatorX processing kits, not proof on its own but enough to send to the lab.”
“Were they making it here?” I ask.
“No. Not enough structure. Most likely moving product from a larger site. Storing precursor material, maybe. This place looks like it was cleared in a hurry.”
Ollie lifts his chin toward the water. “Wake line through that channel.”
Sawgrass bends in a faint path through black water, opening toward a cut almost hidden beneath hanging moss. It’s fresh enough that the grass hasn’t settled. We missed whoever was here.
A sour taste coats my tongue. “I brought you too late.”
Wes turns. “No.”
The sharpness catches against the fog still lingering in my nerves. Cold spreads beneath my skin. “You think I knew because I’ve used this place.”
His expression falls. “Scarlet, I know you understand the swamp.”
His voice remains low, but my fear twists it anyway. I know something isn’t right, but I can’t figure out what. The overwhelming feeling that I’m trapped sets in, and my lungs reach for air I can’t find. I step back.
Wes doesn’t follow. “Look at me.”
I can’t. Everything inside me pulls tight.
“Scarlet. Look at me.”
Where I expected an alpha’s bark, Wes’s statement comes out more like a question. It cuts through the fog, and I lift my gaze. When I meet his eyes, they are as steady as an old cedar in rain.
“I’m not accusing you. I’m watching what’s happening to you.”
“What’s happening to me?”
“You’re hearing accusation in things I didn’t say. Fear is filling in intent that isn’t there.”
My stomach drops. “But I’m not bonded. How can there be bond distortion?”
“I don’t know.” His voice stays steady. “That’s why this doesn’t fit the GatorX cases we understand.”
My breath catches, and for once, I have no answer ready.
Wes takes off one glove and holds out his hand, palm up.
His steady voice cuts through the fog. “Tell me what’s real.”
I focus on the warmth of his eyes, and it hits me.
I know Wes. He buys extra hush puppies just so I can steal them from his plate, carries me to bed when I’m too tired to keep pretending I’m fine, and leaves his cedar on my skin until my omega remembers how to breathe.
He puts himself between me and the town, and he touches me as though my pleasure matters enough to take all the time in the world.
With him, I feel like an omega worth being cared for instead of the town bondbreaker everyone learned to leave behind.
And that scares the shit out of me. But I can tell the difference between his questions and Tom’s conclusions, even when fear tries to erase it.
“You’re here,” I say.
“Yes.”
“You didn’t accuse me.”
“No.”
“You stopped when I moved away.”
“Yes.”
The fog continues to loosen.
I put my hand in his. Heat returns first, sliding up my arm and across my chest. Then the panic recedes enough for the dock, water, and trees to become separate things again. His thumb traces the side of my hand.
“I hate that this works,” I whisper.
“I know.”
“It’s unfair at how versatile you make that answer.”
His gaze lowers to my mouth. “I know that too.”
Ollie clears his throat. “I’m staring at the trees with heroic dedication.”
“Keep doing that,” Wes says. He brushes his lips across my forehead. “You did so well.”
His breath on my neck sends shivers through my body. “You can’t praise me. It makes me want to climb you,” I reply.
“Pretty sure that already happened,” Ollie says.
“Shut it, Crane,” I say.
Wes growls, and Ollie puts up his hands in the universal surrender gesture, his smile wide.
We finish quickly after that.
Wes labels the cooler residue, sterile packet, ribbon, and water samples. He photographs the drag marks and fading wake path.
When we return to the airboat, Wes offers his hand again. I take it without waiting.
The ride back is louder than the trip in. Wind tears at my hair and presses my skirt against my legs while Ollie pushes the boat through the green channels.
Wes sits beside me with one arm braced along the bench behind my back. I lean into his side, and his palm settles on my knee. Neither of us mentions what I had been doing in his lap before the branch cracked. My body remembers anyway.
Roman is waiting at my house when we return in the late afternoon, along with Pepper and enough equipment to make my porch look like a surveillance company. He sees me step from the truck and stops talking. His gaze moves over my wind-tangled hair and the hand Wes has kept near my back.
“Oh,” he says softly.
Pepper looks up from a sample cooler. “That sounded meaningful.”
“Investigative observation.”
“Sure.”
I walk past both of them, because my face decided to heat like it has a side job as an oven.
Wes hands Roman the evidence with clipped professional efficiency, laying out the site, the cooler, the medical packaging, the ribbon, and the wake through the channel.
“Give me some samples to test. I’ll run comparisons tonight,” Pepper says, packing her tub. “Water against my controls. Residue against the broader collections.”
Roman nods. “Send everything to us too. We can compare notes once we get ours back from the lab.”
“So bossy,” Pepper says.
“Efficient.”
She looks between Roman, Wes, and me. Her expression softens for a flicker before she hides it under science. “I’ll study the samples. You lock your doors, all of them. And don’t pretend you’re fine just because you’re stubborn and pretty.”
“I object to half of that sentence.”
“File a complaint with the algae.” She hugs me before I can evade her. “Let yourself be given the comfort of an omega whose home was vandalized,” she whispers.
Then she pulls away, carries the samples to her truck, and leaves us standing on the porch.
The house feels aware when the three of us go inside.
Rain falls while Wes locks the door, soft at first and then steady against the roof.
Roman has set takeout containers, plates, and napkins across the kitchen table. Slow blues crackles from the record player in the living room.
The house smells like them. My scent sits beneath theirs, softer than it used to be.
We sit because civilized people apparently eat dinner after vandalism, public accusation, swamp trespassing, and being watched from behind trees.
Wes sets a plate in front of me. “Eat.”
“That sounded like a command.”
“It’s practical.”
“You keep dressing commands in sensible clothing.”
Roman twirls pasta onto a fork and points it at me. “Three bites, little menace. You burned through adrenaline and whatever swamp weirdness happened between you and Wes.”
“Not all the activities were weird. Some were hot,” I mutter.
Roman’s eyes darken.
Wes looks at his plate.
I take one bite to keep either of them from speaking. My stomach turns. I set the fork down. “I can’t.”
Both men look at me.
“My body feels too strange.”
The room quiets around the admission.
Roman lowers his fork. “Your mind knows the threat passed. Your body doesn’t.”
Wes studies me. “What do you need?”
“You.” My answer comes too quickly. “And Roman,” I say.
Roman’s expression softens.
I look between them. “Close. That’s all I know.”
Wes stands. The chair scrapes softly against the old floorboards. “Dance with me.”
“Right now?” I stare at him.
He steps around the table, holding out one hand. “Let me hold you.”
My mouth opens, but nothing useful happens. Instead, I put my hand in his.
He draws me to my feet and leads me into the living room. The floorboards are cool beneath my bare soles. His hand settles at my back, and my palm rests against his chest. We move slowly between the couch and coffee table. My skirt brushes his thighs with each turn, and his cedar folds around me.
“You’re doing good,” he says into my hair.
My belly warms. “You already know what happens when you praise me while we’re touching.”
His mouth tips at one corner. “It was noted.”
Roman appears in the doorway. He watches us for a moment, hazel eyes dark in the lamplight.
I reach one hand toward him.
Roman sets down his plate and comes to us. “A three way dance?”
“Yes.”
“Whatever you need, beautiful.” He steps behind me, chest warming my back. His palms settle on my hips while Wes steadies me from the front.
I’m surrounded. Cedar. Cardamom. Rain and music. My muscles release one by one. We sway through one song and into the next. Roman’s thumb strokes slowly along my hip, and Wes’s breath warms my temple.
I stop waiting for them to decide whether I’m too fragile for what I want.
“Touch me.”
Both men still.
“I know what I’m asking,” I say. “Whatever happened to me out there distorted what I heard. It didn’t invent this.”
Wes’s hand slides into my hair. His eyes search mine. “Tell me what you want.”
“Both of you.”