37. Scarlet Sage
Scarlet Sage
The morning after my heat breaks, the cottage smells familiar again.
The scent of wet soil drifts through the cracked kitchen window, and coffee darkens the air near the stove.
Cedar clings to the blanket someone wrapped around my shoulders sometime in the night, and cardamom and cinnamon linger on the pillow Roman carried downstairs, so I wouldn’t have to choose between resting and being near them.
I can separate every scent again. The relief leaves me weak enough that I stay seated when Wes sets a plate of toast and eggs beside my elbow, his hand lingering at my back for an extra moment. He watches me take the first bite like it matters more than it should.
“You can stop checking whether I remember breakfast,” I tell him.
“I’m checking whether you eat it.”
“Is this the part where your alpha instincts pretend they’re a treatment plan?”
“It is.”
Roman walks in, carrying the thermometer, Dr. Cole’s monitoring sheet, and my grandmother’s map. His hair is still damp, sleeves already pushed up.
I narrow my eyes at him. “You brought paperwork to breakfast.”
“I also brought your favorite pen.” He places the green fountain pen beside my plate, a small thing that still undoes me a little.
I accept the thermometer before he asks. My temperature reads 99.6. Roman records it, then kisses my temple.
“Clear head?” he asks.
“Yes.”
“Any scent distortion?”
I turn toward him and breathe in warm spice, the coffee he stole from Wes’s mug, and underneath both of those, simply him. “Cardamom. Cinnamon. Roman.”
His expression softens into something close to relief every time I say his name correctly.
I catch his shirt and pull him close enough to kiss. He cups my cheek while I take my time, tasting coffee on his tongue and feeling my first stir of desire since the fever loosened its hold, gentler this time but mine to choose rather than survive.
When I let him go, Wes is standing beside the table with his arms folded, watching us with an expression he isn’t bothering to hide.
“You have a complaint?” I ask.
“Yes.”
I hold out my hand.
He steps between my knees without hesitation.
“Thank you for breakfast, and for taking care of me.” I draw him down and kiss him too, slower than I mean to, still cataloging how they kept me upright through the worst of it.
Cedar fills my lungs without turning strange. My body recognizes the man before me, but the choice to keep him close belongs to me, fully now, without fear riding underneath it. Wes slides one hand beneath my hair and deepens the kiss until my toes curl against the chair rung.
Roman leans against the counter, watching us with quiet warmth, a look that asks for nothing and still feels like being held. His voice softens. “I’m glad you’re feeling better.”
Wes lifts his mouth from mine, his gaze lingering like he isn’t done looking.
I touch Wes’s face before he can move away. “What happened while I slept?”
His protective focus sharpens. “The outside analyst finished the first access comparison.” He brings the laptop to the table and angles the screen toward me.
The report lists the three entries we identified yesterday: the archive request for my grandmother’s files, the museum transfer that moved a sealed container before the Love Stone disappeared, and the temporary codes used by Rusk at the preservation shed behind Sweetheart Haven Heritage Hall.
A fourth column has been added, terminal origin. Every flagged request came from the same computer inside the museum’s preservation office.
“The shared account hid the person,” I say. “But the terminal narrows the location.”
Roman settles beside me. “The computer requires a building credential after closing hours.”
Wes opens another attachment.
The flagged entries were generated between 9:40 and 11:15 at night. Heritage Hall was closed to visitors. Only staff, board members, preservation officers, and approved volunteers working on Month of Heart displays should have been inside.
The attendance sheet includes nine names. The museum director appears twice, along with Myrtle Vane. Three historical society volunteers signed in for display assembly. Magnolia sent a vendor coordinator. A maintenance contractor worked near the archive climate system.
It’s enough people for whoever it was to hide inside legitimate activity.
“Were the credentials tracked?” I ask.
“The exterior door records a group access code during festival preparation,” Wes says. “One person enters it, then everyone walks in together.”
“So no individual trail.”
“Correct.”
I study the time stamps. The archive copying request was created at 10:17. The museum transfer at 10:42. Rusk’s first code at 10:58. All three fall inside preservation work sessions.
“Whoever did this didn’t sneak into the building,” I say. “They worked while everyone else was there.”
Roman traces one entry with his finger. “And used the noise of ordinary preparation for cover.”
An alert appears in the corner of the screen. A news clip begins playing before Wes can close it.
The mayor stands beneath the festival arch downtown, surrounded by paper hearts and reporters.
Behind him, vendors reopen booths while a banner declares Love Always Finds a Way.
He praises the sheriff’s office, announces that the danger has passed, and promises the Love Stone will be recovered once Cal Rusk cooperates.
My name follows.
Local recluse Scarlet Sage helped federal investigators identify the suspect.
A photograph of my cottage fills the screen.
Wes closes the video. His cedar turns sharp enough to sting my nose. “They showed the house.”
“The footage was taken from the county road,” Roman says.
“They showed where she lives.”
I rest my hand on Wes’s forearm. The muscle beneath my palm remains rigid. “I’m safe.”
“They just told every curious person in town where to find you.”
“It’s Sweetheart Haven. They already knew.”
“Still unacceptable.” His alpha wants walls, locks, distance, and everyone who has ever looked at me too closely placed beyond reach.
I understand the urge. I also see how easily protection can cage the person inside it. “Stay with me,” I say.
His eyes find mine.
“I won’t let myself fade away again. The town made up its mind about me years ago, but I need to stop carrying that weight.”
Wes turns his hand beneath mine and laces our fingers together. “You won’t.”
Roman opens a message from Tom.
The note contains a photograph taken inside the evidence room at the sheriff’s office. An archival supply packet sits on a metal table, tagged and logged. Green backing paper rests beneath sheets of vellum, cut into narrow squares. The dimensions match the pale gap on my grandmother’s copied page.
Tom’s message follows: Recovered from Magnolia’s festival storage during a deputy inventory sweep. Only one order used this discontinued backing. Heritage Hall preservation committee. Twelve archival packets. Picked up rather than delivered.
“Did he find a pickup name?” I ask.
Roman opens the attached receipt. “The signature is unreadable. The vehicle field contains a partial license plate and the word motorcycle.”
Wes nods once. “Tom already flagged it for follow-up.”
My attention returns to the green backing. “My grandmother used that color to mark corrections.”
Roman looks at the map lying beside my plate. “Corrections to what?”
“Public records. Festival maps. Anything she believed had been copied wrong.”
I pull the map closer. The protection path is marked in red. The release path is brown. The missing vellum section would have sat directly over the place where the routes divide.
“She wasn’t hiding the release path,” I say. “She was correcting the town’s version of the map.”
Wes studies the cut marks. “And someone removed the correction.”
A knock sounds at the front door. Wes places himself between me and the entry before checking the camera.
Myrtle Vane is standing on the porch, holding a covered casserole dish. Her silver hair is pinned neatly beneath a straw hat, and she has a preservation committee badge on her blouse.
Wes doesn’t open the door.
Myrtle lifts the dish toward the camera. “I heard Scarlet has been unwell,” she calls. “The historical society wanted her to know we’re thinking of her.”
Roman and I exchange a look. The news didn’t mention my heat or illness.
Wes presses the speaker button. “Who told you she was unwell?”
Myrtle’s pleasant expression falters for less than a second. “Small town, Agent Osprey. News travels.” She sets the casserole on the porch table and turns toward the steps. “Hope you start feeling better, Scarlet.”
My phone rings with an unknown number. I answer while watching Myrtle walk toward a dark sedan, parked beyond the gate.
A distorted voice speaks through layers of static. “You found the wrong path.” The call ends.
Wes is already locking down the property while Roman traces the number.
Myrtle’s car disappears beneath the cypress trees.
I look at my grandmother’s map, where the ink thins and the paper goes too smooth, like a wound that healed wrong. I wonder how long she carried that scar alone before deciding silence was safer than the truth.