31. Wes Osprey
Wes Osprey
Scarlet goes hot in my arms before we reach the bedroom.
The change is swift enough that I feel it through my shirt.
One moment she is warm from the attic, loose with exhaustion and pleasure.
The next, heat pours from her skin, and her scent blooms so thickly through the hallway that my alpha surges forward with a force that nearly stops my feet.
The scent of green herbs sharpens beneath honeyed sweetness. Wet earth turns rich and fertile. Every instinct in me answers. Take her to the nest. Keep her there. Fill her until the heat breaks.
I tighten my hold and keep walking.
Roman reaches her bedroom first. He strips back the comforter and pulls the curtains while I lower Scarlet onto the mattress. Her fingers catch in my shirt before I can straighten.
“Don’t go.”
“I won’t, sweetheart.” The words ease the pinch between her brows, though her grip remains.
Roman kneels beside her and presses two fingers to her pulse. “Fast.”
Scarlet turns her face into my chest. “It feels wrong.”
“How?”
She breathes through another wave. “Too quick. I’m on suppressants. I’ve been on them so long, they don’t stop my heats entirely, but they’ve been giving me a few days of warning.” Her fingers tighten on my chest. “They’re usually mild. I get through them alone.”
My alpha reacts badly to the word usually. She has done this before. Alone. I’ve known that she was an unbonded omega living outside town, but facts on a page are devoid of emotion. Scarlet trembling against me while her body calls for a pack she has never had is anything but unemotional.
Roman meets my eyes over her head. “Call Cole. She’s already monitoring the exposure and Scarlet’s bloodwork.”
I pull my phone from my pocket without shifting Scarlet away from me. Dr. Cole answers on the second ring, her image appearing beneath harsh laboratory lights.
“Osprey.”
“Scarlet’s temperature is rising. Scent change, accelerated pulse, persistent pelvic pressure after orgasm. Suppressants don’t appear to be working.”
Scarlet lifts her head enough to glare at the phone. “You make me sound like a malfunctioning appliance.”
“You’re still insulting me, so neurological function appears intact.”
Her mouth twitches, but another cramp steals her expression.
Dr. Cole’s voice sharpens. “Ms. Sage, describe the pain.”
Scarlet closes her eyes. “It’s too fast. Heavy. Low. It rolls through, backs off, then returns stronger.”
“Any nausea? Confusion? Visual distortion? Trouble recognizing either man’s scent?”
“No.” Her answer comes without hesitation.
Relief moves through me so hard, my knees weaken.
Dr. Cole glances offscreen, reading results. “Your first blood panel shows low-level carrier exposure. It’s present, but the concentration is below what we saw in Maribel’s sample. Your hormone profile also indicates legtimate heat onset.”
“Did the exposure trigger it?” Roman asks.
“It may have accelerated the cycle. Stress can do the same. I can’t separate those variables tonight.”
Scarlet’s fingers flex against my chest. “Can I stay here?”
“Yes, with monitoring. Temperature every hour. Fluids. No more suppressants. This heat is already breaking through. If you experience scent-recognition changes, confusion, vomiting, fainting, or a temperature above one hundred three, you go to the hospital.”
Scarlet shifts against me. “I’ve always handled my heats alone.”
Dr. Cole’s voice gentles. “Then keep the routine your body already recognizes. Use your own supplies and build the nest the way you normally would. Add their scents and touch gradually instead of changing everything because they’re here.”
Roman nods. “We follow her system.”
“Send temperature and pulse readings through the encrypted case portal you’ve been using for the lab results. I’ll review the second panel when it finishes.”
The call ends.
Scarlet remains curled against me, breathing through the fading edge of a cramp.
“Where are your supplies?” Roman asks.
She points toward the closet. “Back wall. The blue bins.”
He opens the door and disappears inside.
I stroke my hand down Scarlet’s back. Her dress is damp between her shoulder blades.
“Do you want it off?”
She nods against me.
I undo the buttons slowly, easing the fabric from her shoulders without making her release my shirt. She lifts enough for me to draw it away. Her skin is flushed from her throat to her breasts, and the scent pouring from her makes my teeth ache.
No permanent bite yet. The rule has never felt more necessary. Or more brutal.
Roman returns carrying two lidded bins and a canvas bag.
He sets them on the floor before opening the first. Inside are soft blankets, cooling packs, electrolyte powder, washcloths, bottled water, a thermometer, and several oversized shirts worn thin from years of use.
The second bin contains toys in cloth pouches, lubricant, wipes, spare batteries, and folded waterproof pads.
Scarlet sees where I’m looking. “I told you I had supplies.”
“You prepared well.”
“I had to.” There is no sarcasm in it. Only painful truth.
Roman lifts one of the old shirts from the bin. “Which pieces belong in the nest?”
“All of them.”
He arranges the bed around her, layering the familiar blankets first. Scarlet watches closely, correcting the angle of a pillow with one weak gesture. “Not there. It blocks the wall.”
Roman moves it without argument.
She directs him through every choice. The blue quilt at her feet.
The softest blanket beneath her hips. Cooling cloths on the nightstand.
Toys within reach but not scattered across the mattress.
Water on both sides, because during her last heat, she knocked over the only bottle and cried for twenty minutes before crawling to the bathroom sink.
I don’t let my reaction show, but my alpha wants to howl at the wrongness of it. “When was that?” I ask.
“Last winter.”
“And you were alone?”
Her gaze drops to the blanket. “Always.”
Roman pauses with one of my shirts in his hands.
Scarlet looks between us.
The room fills with the weight of everything neither of us says.
I sit beside her and hold out my hand. She gives me hers.
“You aren’t this time.”
Her fingers thread through mine. “I’m beginning to understand that.”
Roman places my shirt near her pillow, then adds his beside it. Scarlet pulls both close, breathing cedar, cinnamon, and cardamom into her lungs. Her eyes flutter shut as a purr vibrates softly through her chest.
My alpha settles by degrees.
Roman brings over the thermometer. Scarlet accepts it, checks the display herself, and hands it to him.
“One hundred point nine,” he says.
“Log it.”
I secure the windows and check the camera feed while Roman helps Scarlet drink. The exterior sensors remain active. Tom has a deputy parked near the county road, and Callum’s crew installed a second camera angle from the neighboring property before nightfall.
My phone vibrates. Tom. I answer near the door.
“We got the repair yard warrant moving,” he says. “Earliest entry is morning. One more thing: Deputy Ruiz saw a motorcycle turn off Old County Nine toward the drainage road about twenty minutes ago. No plate.”
“Direction of travel?”
“Southbound, then lights out near the old access.”
My attention cuts toward the bedroom window. “Keep Ruiz off the drainage road,” I say. “No solo approach.”
“Already told him. We’re watching both ends.”
Scarlet shifts on the bed. Her eyes are open now, fixed on me. She heard enough.
“What happened?” Roman asks.
I end the call. “Motorcycle near the old access. Tom has units watching.”
Scarlet pushes herself upright, but a fresh wave rolls through her before she gets far. Her breath catches, and her thighs draw together beneath the blanket.
I cross the room and brace her shoulders. “You are not going out there tonight.”
“I wasn’t going to.”
Her answer surprises me.
She reaches for Roman with one hand and me with the other. “I want the map brought here,” she says. “And the photographs. If the route matters, I can work from the bed when this eases.”
Roman sits on her other side. “That sounds reasonable.”
I glare at him.
He raises one brow. “She said from the bed.”
“Not happening.”
Scarlet’s thumb strokes my knuckles. “I’m not asking you to choose between me and the case.”
“There is no choice.”
Her expression softens. “I believe you,” she says.
The words reach places I’ve kept locked down since we entered Sweetheart Haven.
Another cramp tightens through her. This one bends her forward between us, her breaths turning strained as her scent floods the room.
Roman gathers her hair away from her neck. I place my palm low on her stomach, feeling the muscles contract beneath her burning skin.
Scarlet leans into the pressure. “That helps.”
I keep my hand there.
Her scent swells again, richer than before. My alpha pushes against every limit I’ve built, and Roman’s breathing deepens beside me as his beta responds to her need.
Scarlet lifts her face. Her pupils are wide. Her lips part around another unsteady breath. She looks from Roman to me, then pulls our joined hands against her body. “Stay close,” she says.
A motorcycle engine carries faintly across the swamp and cuts off before it reaches the road.