Page 3

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COLT

I t ain’t much, but it’s got a roof.

The workshop’s a wreck—tools scattered, parts rusting, shelves sagging under the weight of forgotten junk. Dust coats everything. The place is more graveyard than workspace, but there’s potential. A purpose.

Finding the Gulf Pack’s missing princess.

I shake off the thought and wipe my hands on an already-filthy rag. If I squint, I can almost see this place cleaned up, humming with machinery that actually works. It’s the kind of project that could tether a man.

Not that I belong here.

The space has good bones, though, and my hands itch for a task. I kick a stray wrench out of the way and head toward the back, where a tiny office barely fits a desk and a sagging cot. The windows are caked with grime, letting in just enough light to make the place look worse.

“Home sweet home,” I mutter, dry.

I’ve stayed in worse. At least this place has four walls and a ceiling instead of open sky. I drop my bag by the cot, taking stock. A blanket, clean sheets, something to cover the windows. Maybe I’ll even fix the heater—if I’m still here when winter comes.

For now, there’s something more important.

The signal beacon’s been with me for years, tucked at the bottom of my pack. It’s nothing special—just a steel-cased box with battered dials and switches, salvaged from a wreck after I got loose from a Host prison. It’s janky, but it works.

And in my line of work, that’s all that matters.

I clear space on the desk and set it down, running my fingers over the worn labels. I know them by heart. Long-range frequencies, encrypted channels, a switch to kill the signal in an instant. My lifeline to the outside world—the kind of people who pay well and ask few questions.

But here, in a pack that doesn’t trust strangers, it’s the one thing I can’t afford to let anyone see.

I glance around. A small closet in the corner catches my eye. Perfect. I pry the door open and tuck the radio inside, stripping some wires from the busted generator in the workshop to rig a power source. It’s temperamental, prone to shorting, but it’ll do. I run cables along the baseboards, out of sight.

A faint hum fills the room as the radio flickers to life. Static crackles, followed by a soft, familiar beep—the sound of a secure line waiting.

I flip the switch off. The glow fades.

The sound of footsteps pulls me out of my thoughts. I straighten my ears catching the cadence of a light step—quick and confident, accompanied by the creak of wheels. Then I smell it: warm vanilla, wildflowers after rain, and clementines so sweet they might as well be ripe on the branch.

My stomach tightens. The scent grabs me by the gut and doesn’t let go. I haven’t felt this kind of pull in…hell, maybe ever.

Except in the dining room last night.

It's that girl…the omega. The one who kept her eyes on me all through dinner, devouring me with her gaze while I resisted the urge to do the same.

I stroll out of the office to find her looking around the workshop, wearing a white sundress with a yellow cardigan. She’s standing in the doorway, framed by the afternoon light. She looks like a goddamn angel, motes of dust floating around her like stars.

For a second, I forget how to speak.

She’s the kind of gorgeous that sneaks up on you and hits hard—big, dark eyes that hold too much emotion, a full mouth that seems made to curve into a smile. Her skin is a warm, sunlit brown, like the earth after rain, catching the light in a way that makes her seem like she’s glowing from within.

But it’s her hair that really gets me—dark, glossy waves that tumble over her shoulders, the kind of hair a man can’t help but imagine tangling his fingers in, even when he knows better.

She’s brightness and warmth in a world that’s forgotten how to hold either.

…and I know she’s got a kind of light I’ve got no business chasing.

“Hi,” she says, smiling at me. “Colt, right?”

Fuck, watching those lips curve around my name sends a jolt straight to my cock. I shift in the doorway to the office, trying desperately to play it cool.

“That’s right,” I say. “And you are…?”

“Magnolia.” She hesitates. “Most people call me Maggie, but it’s whatever you?—”

“I like Magnolia,” I cut in. “It’s pretty.”

She blushes, rose-gold blooming across her cheeks. I wonder if she flushes that color all over.

I wipe the grime from my hands, stepping closer, craving another lungful of her scent. She leans in, just barely, arms wrapping around herself like that might keep this chemistry at bay.

“So,” I murmur. “What brings you here, Magnolia?”

She shifts, lips parting, breath hitching. Our wolves are already tangled up in some silent, primal conversation, instincts speaking where words won’t. She swallows, clears her throat.

I half expect her to beg me to fuck her right here and now.

I’d do it. Get myself kicked out on day one.

And I have the feeling it’d be worth it.

“Well, I heard you’re good with machines,” she says. “I mean…obviously, you’re the mechanic. Sorry?—”

“No need to be sorry,” I chuckle. “I am good with machines, for what it’s worth.”

She tears her eyes away from me and gestures beside her, where I notice an old red wagon for the first time, holding a broken-down projector. “The kids have been asking me to get this working again for story time, but I…uh, don’t have the skills for it. Thought maybe you could take a look?”

I glance at the projector, then back at her. “The kids…?”

“Oh,” she says, eyes wide. “Sorry…everyone around here knows me, I just assumed you’d already heard…I’m the teacher in the den. Thus, the kids. Not mine—other people’s.”

I let out a low chuckle. “Let me guess. I fix story time, and I’m the den’s hero?”

“If that’s what it takes to get you to help,” she teases.

I smirk. “Alright, hand it over.”

She bends down to pick it up, grunting slightly at the exertion. When she passes it to me, our fingers brush for a fraction of a second, but it’s long enough for my wolf to stir, growling low in my chest.

He wants her bad. So do I. But this place is far too wholesome for the things I would do to this girl.

I motion to the workbench. “This might take a while,” I say. “It’s in rough shape.”

Magnolia doesn’t move to leave, though. Instead, she pulls up a stool, settling in like she plans to stay. Her scent—vanilla and wildflowers, the same scent I caught outside the gate yesterday—distracts me in a way that’s downright dangerous.

“You planning on supervising?” I ask, raising a brow as I set the projector on the bench and start inspecting it.

She tilts her head, her smile playful. “Maybe. Or maybe I’m just curious if you’re as good as everyone says.”

That pulls a laugh from me. “Everyone, huh? Been here all of five minutes, and already I’ve got a reputation?”

She laughs nervously. I get the impression she doesn’t flirt very often–which is strange, because it’s working real fucking well on me. “Word travels fast. Besides, the kids are counting on you. They love story time, and if this works…” Her voice softens, the playfulness fading. “It gives them a little bit of magic, you know? Something that reminds them there’s more to the world than just…this.”

Her words catch me off guard, hitting a part of me I usually keep buried. I glance at her, and for a moment, I’m struck by how earnest she is, how unguarded. It’s rare to see anyone like that anymore—someone who hasn’t been completely hardened by the world.

“Big dreams for a busted-up projector,” I say.

“Sometimes, big dreams are all we have,” she replies.

I don’t know how to respond to that, so I focus on the task at hand, prying open the projector and examining its guts. It’s worse off than I thought—wires frayed, parts rusted, half the mechanisms gummed up with dirt.

“This thing’s ancient,” I mutter, fiddling with a stubborn screw. “Might need some parts I don’t have.”

“I can help track them down.”

I chuckle. “You always this helpful?”

“Only when it matters,” she says with a small smile, and damn if that doesn’t feel like a punch to the gut. I look away, forcing my attention back to the projector.

“You’re distracting, you know that?” I tease.

Magnolia glances away, tucking a strand of dark, glossy hair behind her ear. “Sorry,” she says quickly, starting to rise like she’s overstayed her welcome. “I didn’t mean to?—”

“I didn’t say leave,” I cut in—because shit, I don’t want her to go, even if she really should. She freezes mid-step, looking back at me with those wide brown eyes, her innocence practically glowing off her.

Like she has no idea what she’s doing to me just by standing there.

I clear my throat, trying to play it cool. “I just meant…you’re a lot more hopeful than I’m used to.”

Her lips part slightly, soft and unsure, and I catch myself staring at them longer than I should. My wolf stirs low in my chest, urging me to close the distance between us, to take her, to ruin her sweetness until she doesn’t blush like that for anyone else but me.

“Is that a bad thing?” she asks.

I put the screwdriver down, taking a second to get myself under control. She’s too close. Too bright. Too goddamn good. “No,” I say after a beat. “But it might be dangerous.”

Her eyes widen just enough for me to notice, and the air between us goes taut with tension. She holds my gaze, her lips pressing into the faintest smile. The kind of smile that makes a man forget everything he swore he wouldn’t do.

“Well,” she says, her voice light but with just enough weight to settle under my skin, “I’ll take my chances.”

She turns to leave, and I watch her go, my chest tight, my wolf pacing inside me. That faint, sweet scent of hers lingers in the air—vanilla and wildflowers, clean and innocent—and it’s like a leash around my neck, pulling me after her.

She’s good. Too good. The kind of girl who believes in fairy tales and happy endings, who’s never seen the kind of ruin a man like me can bring. And all I can think about is how much I want to wreck her. To turn her softness into something wild, something that’s mine.

Dangerous doesn’t even begin to cover it. She’s trouble I’ve got no business wanting.

But holy hell, I want her anyway.