Page 10

10

COLT

I t’s dark out as I walk back to the workshop, the only lights a string of lanterns hanging along a walkway to my right. I keep to the fringes, not wanting to run into anyone–not when I can barely quiet my racing heart, when I’m sure my scent would tell any alpha or omega everything they need to know about where my head’s at.

Which is where, exactly?

Between Magnolia’s legs…on her lips, fingers tangled in her hair.

Fuck, I’ve never felt anything like this. The need to be with her is raw, undeniable, potent enough to drive a man mad. It’s the new moon, my wolf should be dormant, but he’s screaming at me to claim her.

I don’t know what I was thinking, asking to walk her home. It wasn’t part of the plan. None of this has been part of the plan.

She’s a risk I can’t take, not when I’m keeping secrets.

I should be focused on the job, on the payout waiting for me. Magnolia is a liability. But I can't stop thinking about her. Can't get my mind off her. Even though I've found the girl I'm looking for.

Peaches.

She's got to be the one–the Gulf Pack’s lost princess, Esther.

The story Peaches told tonight makes it clear that she’s the girl I’m after, and she’s not trying to hide it. If I were smart, I would get in touch with the Gulf Pack tonight and tell them everything–wait for a response on what to do next, then duck out of here forever and take my money.

And yet…

I’m not going to do that tonight. At least, I don’t think I am.

Because Magnolia’s face is still on my mind, the way her lips parted when I leaned in, the way her voice shook when she admitted she’d never been kissed. The way her scent wrapped around me, the way it’s still lingering on my clothes, on the hand that touched her hair.

Could I convince her to go with me? Could I claim her…take her away from this place that has held her to such rigid rules?

I shake my head, forcing the thoughts away. This is dangerous. She is dangerous. Not because she’s a threat, but because she makes me want things I shouldn’t.

Things I can’t have.

I’m almost to the workshop, the door just ahead. I exhale, trying to shake off the tension coiling in my gut. The sooner I get inside, the sooner I can message the Gulf Pack, buy myself some more time–

“Late night stroll, Morgan?”

I wince, stopping with my hand halfway to the door.

I freeze, my hand halfway to the workshop door, and let out a groan under my breath. “Frankie,” I mutter, turning to face her.

She’s leaning against the wall, just barely visible. Her eyes gleam with that eerie iridescence that only comes with a partial shift, just enough to remind me that she could rip me apart if she wanted to. Her arms are crossed, her posture casual, but everything about her screams, I’m not here to play nice.

“What do you want?” I ask, dropping my hand and mirroring her stance, crossing my arms over my chest. I’m bigger than she is, but Frankie has a way of making size irrelevant. She’s like a loaded gun—small, but ready to fire at the slightest provocation.

Her head tilts, her lips curling into a faint smirk. “Just out for a stroll,” she says, her tone dripping with false innocence. “Thought I’d see what you were up to.”

“Uh-huh,” I say, my voice dry. “And what’s the verdict? Am I up to no good?”

She doesn’t answer right away, sizing me up with a look. “You tell me,” she says finally. “What’s got you so distracted tonight, Morgan? Thinking about the walk you just took with Maggie Jones?”

There it is. The bait.

I grin, leaning against the doorframe as if her glare isn’t threatening to set me on fire. “What’s it to you, Frankie?” I ask, keeping my tone light. “Jealous?”

Her jaw tightens, but she doesn’t rise to it. “Jealous?” she repeats, her voice low. “Not likely.”

“Really?” I press, smirking now. “Because you sure seem invested in what I’m doing. Always watching me, always lurking in the shadows. Starting to think you’ve got a little crush.”

Her eyes narrow, that faint glow flashing brighter for a second. “Careful,” she says. “You’re not as funny as you think you are.”

“Come on, Frankie,” I tease, straightening up and taking a step closer. “You can admit it. I get it—tough alpha like you probably doesn’t get to cut loose much. Must be exhausting, carrying all that righteous anger around.”

She steps away from the wall, and for a second, I wonder if she’s about to swing. She doesn’t, but the threat remains. “You think this is a joke?” she says, her voice quiet but dangerous.

I shrug. “Not a joke. Just…not your business.”

She cocks her head at me. “The women of this pack are my business,” she says. “Reyes is all about giving folks the benefit of the doubt, but that means somebody has to watch out for our people, and that person is me.”

I take a step closer, challenging her. “Magnolia’s a grown woman. She doesn’t need you babysitting her.”

“She doesn’t need you either,” Frankie counters. “So why don’t you make it easy for everyone and leave her alone before you screw this up?”

I laugh, shaking my head. “You really don’t like me, huh?”

“No,” she says bluntly. “I don’t.”

My grin drops, replaced with a snarl. “Well, the feeling’s mutual,” I say. “So why don’t you save us both the trouble and mind your own business?”

Her glare sharpens, and for a moment, I think she’s going to push it further. But then she takes a step back, her posture relaxing just enough to show that she’s done—for now.

“Just remember what I said, Morgan,” she says, her tone cold. “You hurt her–you hurt anyone in this den–and I’ll make sure you regret it.”

With that, she turns on her heel and stalks off into the shadows, leaving me standing there with my heart pounding and my wolf growling low in my chest.

"Yeah," I mutter to the empty air. "Got it loud and clear."

I give her a couple minutes to put some distance between us before I yank the door open and stalk inside the workshop. Inside, it’s quiet, the air heavy with the smell of oil and rust. It’s a mess—tools scattered across the bench, wires draped haphazardly over crates, Magnolia’s half-disassembled projector sitting dead center like it’s mocking me for my lack of focus.

I can’t even do what she asked me to; I’m too distracted by the temptation she presents.

I drop my jacket on a chair and head straight for the projector, flicking on the lamp hanging over the workbench. The weak yellow glow spills across the metal casing, highlighting the scratches and dents I’d tried to ignore earlier.

“Alright,” I mutter to myself, pulling a screwdriver from the pile of tools. “Let’s see if we can get you to play nice.”

The rhythmic click of the screwdriver against the screws fills the room as I work to dismantle the projector further. It’s the kind of thing that should calm me down, let me lose myself in the motions and forget about Frankie’s threats—or the way Magnolia looked at me tonight, like I was something worth risking her composure for.

But it doesn’t work. My focus fractures with every turn of the screwdriver, my thoughts snagging on her like a burr. I can’t stop seeing the way she looked up at me, her lashes low, her lips parting slightly like she was daring me to close the distance. The softness in her voice when she said my name wasn’t just shy—it was raw, unguarded, like she didn’t even realize the effect she had on me.

And her scent—sweet and warm, vanilla and wildflowers—wrapped around me like it was trying to stake a claim. Even now, I can smell it on my skin, faint but potent enough to drive me insane. It’s not just how she smells; it’s the way it makes my body react without permission. My blood runs hotter, my wolf pacing beneath the surface, claws scraping against the edges of my control.

I keep replaying the moment when she leaned in, just enough that I felt her breath against my skin. It would’ve been so easy to close that space, to brush my lips against hers and taste her. God, I want to know what she tastes like—if her lips are as soft as they look, if she’d let out that little catch in her breath again, the one that made my stomach tighten like a coiled spring.

It’s not just physical, though that’s part of it—hell, it’s a big part of it. But there’s something about the way she looks at me, like she’s seeing past the mess of who I am to the parts I don’t even like to admit are there. She doesn’t flinch, doesn’t shy away, even when she should.

And that makes me want her even more. Makes me want to pull her close, let her hands press against my chest, feel her fingers grip my shirt. Makes me want to see her eyes flutter shut as I drag my mouth down her throat, hear the sounds she’d make when she can’t hold back anymore.

My grip tightens on the screwdriver, and I force myself to focus on the damn projector, but it’s useless. My wolf is clawing at me, demanding I turn around, walk back to her house, and claim her—make her mine in every sense of the word. The thought burns through me, bright and impossible to extinguish.

I curse under my breath, forcing my focus back on the wires tangled inside the projector. “You’re losing it, Morgan,” I mutter. “She’s not for you. None of this is for you.”

The words sound hollow, even to me. Magnolia Jones is under my skin, and there’s no wrench, no tool in this damn workshop, that’s going to fix it.

By the time the projector’s insides are somewhat organized, my nerves are still shot. I shove the screwdriver aside, rubbing a hand down my face as I glance toward the office.

Inside…the hidden closet. A pile of junk.

The signal beacon underneath, tucked away in case anyone–like Frankie–wants to toss the workshop.

I should ignore it. I should let it sit there and collect dust, pretend it doesn’t exist. I’ve been offered a place here, at least for now, and maybe that offer is real.

But the Gulf Pack’s offer is a weight pressing on my shoulders, and I know I can’t put it off forever.

With a sigh, I push off the bench and make my way to the closet. I open the door and move a few boxes and supplies aside, finding the beacon on, its faint blue light pulsing steadily, like it’s been waiting for me.

“Alright,” I mutter, flipping the switch to activate the interface. The screen flickers to life, and I brace myself for what I know is coming.

There it is: a message from Ephraim, the Prime’s son…Peaches’ brother.

Status update requested. Have you located the target? Please send coordinates and await instructions.

I stare at the message, my fingers hovering over the keypad. I could respond right now, tell them I’ve found her, that she’s here. Realistically, I understand another bounty hunter will shop up eventually. The temptation is too great.

But they’re expecting me to deliver Peaches—Esther—like she’s a package, like her freedom doesn’t matter, like her life isn’t worth anything more than the bounty they’ve slapped on her. And a week ago, maybe I’d have done it. A quick in and out, then I’d throw Peaches over the back of my bike and get the hell out of here, taking more than a few gallons of gasoline with me.

Not anymore.

Instead, I toss the boxes over the beacon again, the screen going dark as the sound echoes through the empty workshop. My chest is tight, my wolf pacing and restless, and I can’t tell if it’s because of the message or because of the scent still lingering on my clothes—vanilla and wildflowers, sweet and impossible to forget.

I sink into the chair by the workbench, the weight of everything pressing down on me. Peaches’ story, Frankie’s warning, Magnolia’s warmth…none of it fits the picture I’d painted of this place before I arrived. I figured the Gulf Pack’s girl would have run off and found herself in another bad situation. It’s tough for omegas out there.

But she’s safe. I mean…fuck, this is paradise.

I don’t belong here. I’ve known that since the moment I rolled into the Austin Den. This place isn’t for guys like me—guys who take what isn’t theirs, who leave a trail of wreckage behind them without a second thought. But for some reason, Magnolia doesn’t seem to care about any of that. She looks at me like I’m worth something. Like she sees something in me that even I can’t find.

And that’s the most dangerous part of all.

I glance at the hidden beacon again, the boxes piled on top of it like that’s enough to keep the Gulf Pack at bay. Like they won’t send someone else if I don’t respond. They’ll come eventually—someone will. And that could make it worse. If they come, they could finger me as a scapegoat, a liar…and even worse, they could take Magnolia, too.

I can’t imagine her in a place like that. I won’t have it.

Which is exactly why I don’t think I can bring myself to condemn Peaches to that fate.

I push myself out of the chair, pacing the length of the workshop like that’s going to help. Like movement will somehow burn off the energy thrumming under my skin. But it doesn’t. Nothing does. The space feels too small, too suffocating, the weight of my choices pressing down on me with every step I take.

I stop in front of the projector again, staring down at it like it’s going to give me the answers I’m looking for. But all it does is sit there, silent and unhelpful, its metal casing glinting dully under the light.

With a frustrated growl, I shove the tools aside and lean against the workbench, gripping the edge so hard my knuckles turn white. My wolf is restless, agitated, clawing at me to do something, anything. But what? Run? Stay? Tell Magnolia the truth? Lie to her and everyone else until I’ve gotten what I came for?

None of it feels right. None of it feels like enough.

And if I don’t figure it out soon, it’s all going to come crashing down.