Page 11

11

MAGNOLIA

M y body is still thrumming with electricity as I step through the front door, hoping–despite my better judgment–that I can go straight to bed without any issue. The familiar scent of home surrounds me: cinnamon from my mom’s tea, smoke from a crackling fire. Normally, it would comfort me.

Tonight, it’s suffocating.

Colt…he’s making me question everything I thought I knew. This whole time, I’ve truly believed I was too busy for a relationship, for boys. Even when other women in the pack indulged in the thrill of the full moon, even as I’ve watched other people my age pair up, I’ve held back. When I watched my friend Charlotte marry her mate, I fully believed I would never have that.

It was all a fantasy.

And now Colt is here, and he’s sent my whole world spinning in a different direction.

I shut the door behind me, leaning against it for a moment as I gather myself, my hands over my heart. Even that slight touch sends me reeling, wishing those were Colt’s hands on me, wishing I’d been bold enough to ask him not to take me home.

To take me back to the workshop…do whatever he had planned.

“Well, well–look who finally made it home.”

My eyes snap open and I find my mother standing in the kitchen doorway, her arms crossed and her dark eyes narrowed in a way that tells me she is not happy. My dad is at the table behind her, looking over an ancient pair of reading glasses and ignoring his book. He looks back down at it when my mom glares over her shoulder at him, pretending he wasn’t paying attention to the oncoming storm.

“Hi,” I say, trying to keep my voice level even as my heart continues to race. My skin is so hot that it’s almost unbearable; I want nothing more than to go to my room, throw on something more breathable, and sleep over the covers all night.

Mom says nothing. Dad clears his throat, eyes darting between the two of us. “Thought you’d be home earlier,” he says. “Everything alright?”

“Yeah,” I say, forcing a smile. I’m frozen by the door, unable to walk past my mother to the stairs. “Story night ran a little late.”

Mom snorts, shaking her head. “Story night, huh?” she says. “And you didn’t do anything afterward?”

Heat crawls up my neck–more angry now than the leftovers of desire from Colt’s touch. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

She raises an eyebrow. “You think I didn’t see him walking you home? You think the whole pack didn’t see?”

“Mom,” I start, but she holds up a hand.

“Don’t ‘Mom’ me, Magnolia,” she says. “I’ve seen his type before. Charming, rough around the edges…but he’s an alpha, starshine. And you’re an omega. Do you have any idea what kind of danger that puts you in?”

“I’m aware,” I interrupt. “Please…I just want to go to bed.”

“Oh, did taking a long walk with Colt wear you out?”

“Mom!”

“Sarita,” Dad interjects. “Just let her go to bed. We can talk about it in the morning if you still want to.”

Mom spins around to glare at him, her jaw tight. “Bruce, you know as well as I do why this matters. You know what can happen when someone like him gets too close.”

Dad’s expression softens, but there’s a flicker of something guarded in his eyes. “That’s not fair,” he says quietly. “Colt hasn’t done anything to deserve that kind of judgment.”

“Not yet,” Mom mutters. She turns back to me. “You don’t understand, Maggie,” she says, her voice pleading. “There are things…things I haven’t told you. Things you don’t need to know.”

My heart thuds in my chest, an uneasy twist settling in my stomach. “What are you talking about?” I ask. “What things?”

Mom’s lips press into a thin line, the silence that follows heavy and suffocating. She shakes her head as if shaking off the thought entirely, but I can see the way her hand trembles slightly where it grips her arm. “Just…listen to me,” she says finally. “You can’t trust men like him. Not with this. Not with you.”

“Men like him?” I echo, frustration bleeding into my tone. “What does that even mean? He’s been here a week, Mom. A week. You don’t even know him.”

She doesn’t respond, her eyes darting to Dad as if searching for backup, for him to step in and explain what she won’t. But Dad just lets out a long breath, his shoulders sagging as he rubs a hand over his face.

“Don’t look at me, Sarita,” he says, his tone quiet but firm. “You’re the one who decided she shouldn’t know.”

“I decided?” she snaps, rounding on him. “We decided, Bruce. Together. Don’t put this on me.”

“I’m not putting it on you,” Dad says. “But she’s not a kid anymore. Maybe it’s time?—”

“No,” Mom cuts him off. “It’s not time. It might never be time.”

My pulse quickens, a cold sort of dread curling in my gut. They’re talking about me like I’m not even here, like I don’t have a right to know what they’re hiding. “Time for what?” I demand, my voice rising. “What are you talking about?”

Mom doesn’t look at me. Her eyes are locked on Dad’s, a silent battle waging between them. He leans back in his chair, crossing his arms over his chest. “She’s going to find out eventually,” he says quietly. “You know she will.”

“Not like this,” Mom replies, her voice barely above a whisper now. “Not because of someone like him.”

My head spins, trying to keep up with a conversation I clearly wasn’t meant to be privy to. “What does that even mean?” I ask, my voice barely audible. “What are you talking about?”

Mom looks at me then, fear clear on her face. “It doesn’t matter,” she says quickly, too quickly. “What matters is that you listen to me. Stay away from him, Maggie. Please.”

I stare at her, my hands curling into fists at my sides. “I’m not a child,” I say, my voice shaking. “If there’s something I need to know, then tell me. Stop treating me like I can’t handle it.”

Mom’s jaw tightens, but she doesn’t say anything. Dad shifts in his seat, his eyes meeting mine briefly before sliding away, like he can’t hold my gaze. “It’s complicated,” he says after a moment. “It’s not something we can just…explain.”

“You could try,” I say, my frustration boiling over. “You could at least try instead of talking around me like I’m not even here.”

“We’re not talking around you,” Mom says, but her voice is strained, like she knows it’s a lie.

“Yes, you are!” I snap, the words bursting out of me. “You’re talking about things I have a right to know, and you’re deciding for me that I don’t need to hear it. That’s not fair.”

Mom’s face softens, but there’s still a stubborn set to her jaw. “Maggie,” she says gently, “there are things you don’t understand. Things I don’t want you to have to understand. Can’t you just trust me on this?”

“No,” I say. “Not if you won’t give me a reason to.”

The silence that follows is deafening, the weight of their unspoken words pressing down on me like a vice. Finally, Mom steps back, her shoulders sagging slightly. “Go to bed,” she says quietly. “We’ll talk about it in the morning.”

I hesitate, my eyes darting between the two of them, but it’s clear I’m not going to get anything else tonight. With a frustrated sigh, I turn and head for the stairs, my heart pounding in my chest.

As I climb to my room, their voices carry up the staircase, too quiet for me to make out the words. But the tone—the raw emotion in Mom’s voice, the quiet steadiness in Dad’s—rattles me.

I can’t hear them. Not really.

As soon as I close my bedroom door, the weight of the conversation with my parents crushes down on me. The muted sound of their voices still drifts up from downstairs, indistinct but heavy with emotion. My parents never fight; I hate myself for making them do that, even though I know I didn’t do anything wrong…that I’m an adult, that they can’t control me. I lean against the door, my forehead pressing into the cool wood, and squeeze my eyes shut, trying to block it all out.

But I can’t.

The guilt in my mom’s eyes, the frustration in my dad’s voice—it’s all looping in my head, tangling with the restless energy already simmering in my body. None of it makes sense. They’re hiding something, something big. I know it.

And yet, they won’t tell me, won’t trust me enough to share whatever secret they’re so desperate to keep.

I didn’t even know my parents had any secrets.

That hurts somewhere deep.

The frustration bubbles up again, and I push off the door, pacing to my bed in a few quick steps. I sit down heavily, my hands gripping the edge of the mattress as I try to calm the whirlwind of emotions spinning inside me. But the harder I try to focus, to breathe, the more my thoughts drift back to him.

Colt.

I bite my lip, my eyes flicking toward the small window across the room. The faint light of the lanterns outside filters through the curtains, casting soft shadows on the floor. He’s probably back at the workshop by now, working on that projector like nothing happened. Like he didn’t just turn my entire world upside down with the way he looked at me, the way he said my name like it was something sacred.

My heart beats faster at the thought of him—his broad shoulders, the rough edge of his voice, the way his scent lingered in the air between us, warm and intoxicating. It’s not just his presence that gets under my skin; it’s the way he sees me, the way he makes me feel like more than just the dutiful daughter, the responsible teacher, the omega everyone relies on.

He makes me feel wanted. Desirable.

The thought sends a shiver down my spine, and I cross my arms over my chest, trying to fend off the heat creeping up my neck. But it’s no use. The memory of his fingers brushing against mine, the way his lips curved into that maddening smirk, is already seared into my brain, refusing to let go.

I lie back on the bed, my head hitting the pillow with a soft thud. My legs dangle over the edge, my body still thrumming with the energy I haven’t been able to shake since he walked me home. I should be angry—at him for distracting me, at my parents for keeping me in the dark, at myself for letting him get to me like this.

But I’m not angry. Not really.

I’m restless. Aching.

I close my eyes, my hands falling to my sides as I let out a slow, shaky breath. The shadows in the room seem to press closer, wrapping around me like a cocoon, and for a moment, I let myself sink into the memory of him—the way he looked at me, the way his voice dipped low when he asked if he could walk me home. The way his lips hovered just close enough to kiss mine but didn’t, leaving me yearning, unfulfilled.

Wanting. Wanting, wanting…wanting it all.

I suck in a breath as I hesitantly move my hand to the hem of my dress, pulling it up my thigh. I keep my eyes closed and try to remember how Colt’s hand felt against my face for that brief moment at the door…calloused, big, warm. I pretend the hand dragging up my thigh is that hand.

My brow furrows; my lips part.

“Colt,” I breathe.

I can picture him here, in this room, kneeling at the side of my bed. In the fantasy, his eyes are bright, luminous, partially shifted. His scent suddenly floods my senses, and even though I know he’s not here–that scent is in my hair, on my clothes–it helps make it all more real.

“Say the word,” his voice echoes in my head. “And I’ll kiss you.”

“Kiss me,” I ask.

My fingers slip beneath my panties to find my clit and my back bows off the bed, my other hand curling against the smooth, neat duvet. His hand…it would feel rougher than this, more commanding, hotter. But his tongue…what would that feel like?

It would feel so good. So good…so good.

My heart throbs in my chest, my breath hitching as the fantasy continues to play out. I can see his eyes darken, feel the heat rolling off him in waves. My fingers move faster, mimicking the rhythm I imagine his would have.

"Colt," I moan again, my voice barely above a whisper.

His lips would be on mine, devouring me, his tongue in my mouth. I bite my lip so hard that I break the skin, tasting copper, needing his kiss, his touch. I imagine his fingers exploring my body, trailing fire wherever they touch.

“Is this what you want?” the fantasy asks.

“Yes,” I groan. “Yes…”

I gasp at the wave of pleasure that courses through me, the image of Colt boxing me in with his arms. I wonder what his body would look like, feel like—where those tattoos go—and I give myself license to picture at all. I’ve never seen a cock in real life, only in books, but I know his would be big and hard and?—

"Colt," I whimper, my fingers finding my entrance…pushing inside, stretching me. “Oh god.”

In my daydream, he's leaning over me, whispering dirty words in my ear. That tone he gets—rough, conspiratorial—I imagine it telling me to spread my legs for him, telling me I’m a good girl…his good girl. His fingers trace down my neck and along my collarbone. I shudder at the thought, my chest heaving as I lean into the ghost of his touch.

“Gonna knot you,” he growls in my ear, and I can almost feel his breath on my neck. “Breed you.”

“Damn it,” I hiss, my fingers stretching. I add another, pumping them into myself. I’m so close, but it’s not enough. I reach up with my free hand and claw at the buttons on my dress, finally getting it open just enough to twist my own nipple. “Yes…yes!”

I imagine the sound of his grunt, the feel of his teeth grazing my neck in that moment of exquisite surrender. I imagine the way his body would press against mine, heavy and demanding. His hand would be on my breast, his thumb brushing over the hardened peak just like I am doing now.

"Colt." The name comes out as a strangled plea as I arch off the bed, my fingers moving faster. "Please."

“Gonna claim you,” he growls in the fantasy, and I can almost feel the rumble of his voice. “Mine.”

The word sends a thrill through me, electrifying every nerve ending in my body. The room around me fades away until there’s only the two of us. His voice echoes in my ears again, commanding and raw.

“Come for me,” he orders.

And I do.

I come undone beneath my own hands, beneath the weight of his imagined touch. A cry escapes from my lips as pleasure overwhelms me, and I move the hand from my breast to clamp down over my mouth. I can’t let anyone hear.

But it doesn’t stop. My fingers are still inside me, pretending to be Cole’s cock, my pussy clenching. And Colt…his scent is everywhere, the fantasy of him overwhelming me. I come again right away, my body curling in on itself with a flood of deep, intense desire.

When I finally open my eyes, the tension in my body has eased, but the ache in my chest remains. I get out of bed to find myself unsteady on my feet, and I go to the dresser to take out a t-shirt and shorts to wear to sleep. As I pass the window, I almost think I see him out there.

If he came back…would I let him in?

Would he do all the things I imagined? More?

I shouldn’t feel this way. I shouldn’t want him. My mom’s warning rings in my ears, but it can’t drown out the pull I feel toward him, the way his presence makes everything else fade away.

I know it’s reckless. Dangerous, even.

But as I drift toward sleep, the last thing I think about is the taste of his name on my lips.

Colt.