Page 34

34

COLT

I throw myself into the work.

It’s the only thing I can do. The only way forward.

I fix what’s broken. The creaky stairs in the common area? Reinforced. The old projector that’s been gathering dust for years? Good as new. The fence along the west perimeter that’s been falling apart since the last storm? Rebuilt, stronger than ever. I wake up before dawn and don’t stop until my hands are raw, until my muscles ache, until I’m too damn exhausted to think about her.

But I do.

I think about her constantly.

I think about her when I see Lucy running wild with the other kids, remembering the way Magnolia used to carry her on her hip, the way she used to ruffle her hair. I think about her when Peaches flashes me a smile, her eyes softer now than they were when all this started. I think about her every time I step into the workshop, her scent lingering in the air like a ghost of what I lost.

I don’t push. I don’t hover.

I just show up.

Every damn day.

At meals, I keep my distance but always position myself between her and the door, like I can shield her from something—even if that something is just me. And every now and then, I catch her watching me. Not with anger. Not even with regret.

Just…watching.

It’s not enough. But it’s something.

Frankie is still a thorn in my side, making damn sure I never forget what I did. She searches my workshop top to bottom, makes me empty my pockets every time I leave a room, mutters under her breath every time she walks past me.

I don’t argue.

I just work harder.

The full moon comes…and fuck, that’s the hardest part. My rut hits harder than I expected, my body burning with need, my wolf clawing inside me, desperate for her. I spend the night locked in the workshop, pacing, sweating, breathing through the pain of it while the den celebrates without me. I know she’s out there. I can feel her, a pull deep in my chest, in my bones, in the mating mark she hasn’t rejected. She’s just a walk away, but unreachable.

She doesn’t come to me.

I don’t go to her.

I don’t deserve to.

I tell the pack everything I know about the Gulf. I repurpose my broken signal beacon to pick up communications the Gulf Pack doesn’t want us hearing. And when I finally pull Peaches aside, it’s not for my sake.

“I didn’t know,” I tell her, my voice rough. “But that’s not an excuse. I should have. I do now. And I swear, I’ll do whatever it takes to burn them to the ground.”

She studies me for a long moment, arms crossed. Then, finally, the corner of her mouth quirks up in a shockingly authentic smile.

“Good,” she says simply.

That night, I collapse onto my cot, exhaustion dragging me under. But just before I slip into sleep, something catches me off guard—warm, familiar, intoxicating.

Magnolia.

It’s faint, gone before I can chase it. But for the first time in a long time, I dream of her.

And then…the full moon circles round again—a cycle, a promise, certain.

And just like the moon, Magnolia comes back to me.

As the sun sets and the pack starts to celebrate, I brace for another night alone, suffering, dying to be inside my mate and soothing her heat. The full moon rises, spilling silver light over the den, over the trees, over the world that’s kept me apart from her for too long. In the distance, the bonfires crackle, voices rising in celebration, in laughter. I hear the music, the stomping of feet, the howls echoing into the night sky. The den is alive, burning with the fever of the moon. I lock the door to the workshop, intent on keeping my promise to stay away…then I feel her.

I can’t explain it, because it isn’t a voice. It’s more like…a sixth sense, a sensation that flickers over my skin like her touch. At first, I wonder if I’m so lovesick and lonely that I imagine it.

But she’s thinking about me…and reaching out.

I barely remember getting up.

One second, I’m sitting on the edge of my cot, hands fisted in my lap, breathing through the weight of the full moon’s pull. The next, I’m moving, unlocking the door, making a bee-line for her house. Outside, the air is thick with the scent of the bonfires, the echo of laughter, the low thrum of voices carried on the wind. The den is alive behind me, a heartbeat pulsing in the night, but I don’t turn toward it.

I go to her.

Step by step, I cross the field, my boots silent against the grass, my body pulled forward by something deeper than instinct. Something carved into my bones, woven into my blood.

The Jones’ house rises in front of me, bathed in moonlight, the porch slats glowing silver, the windows dark. I stop at the edge of the tree line, standing still beneath the weight of the night, of the choice I’m making, of the hope curling like a fist in my chest.

I exhale.

Then, I keep going.

Each step feels heavier than the last, like the ground is testing me, like the universe is making sure I mean it.

I do.

I move with purpose, crossing the grass, slipping around the side of the house to her window. The light is off inside, the curtains still, but I know she’s awake. I can feel it in my bones, in my blood, in the bond that stretches taut between us, fragile but open for the first time in weeks.

I kneel, fingers brushing over the cool earth, and reach for the smooth weight of a pebble.

A breath.

A moment.

I throw the pebble…like some damn school kid, I throw a pebble at her window. Then one more…then another.

I grin to myself, shifting my weight, rolling another pebble between my fingers. This is stupid—the stupidest damn thing I’ve ever done. But my heart is pounding, and my stomach is twisted up, and for the first time in weeks, I feel like myself. I’m just reaching down to grab another pebble when I see movement.

The curtain shifts…my pulse stops…then the window creaks open.

And framed in that window, the moon like a spotlight on her gorgeous face, is Magnolia Jones.

She’s looking down at me, a soft smile on her face, dark eyes luminous and her hair in wild curls all around her. Her scent washes over me, wildflowers and honey and that mingled scent of us, of our baby. I grin up at her, hands sliding into my pockets.

“Hey, angel,” I say.

Magnolia tilts her head, amusement flickering behind the heat in her gaze. "You throwin’ rocks at my window, Colt Morgan?”

I grin up at her. “Seemed like the old-fashioned thing to do.”

She hums, leaning on the sill, her arms folded, watching me like she’s trying to decide whether or not she wants to come down. Like she’s savoring this moment, stretching it out, just to make me sweat.

She’s so beautiful.

The moon catches in her curls, casts soft shadows over her bare shoulders, the fabric of her nightgown whispering against her skin. The scent of her is thick in the air, honey-sweet and aching with the unmistakable heat of the full moon.

It takes every ounce of control I have not to climb up there, drag her down to me, and finally make her mine again.

Instead, I rock back on my heels, smirking. “You gonna let me in, or you just wanna watch me look pretty from up here?”

She huffs a laugh, her lips curving despite herself. “You think you look pretty?”

I tip my head. “Reckon I do.”

She shakes her head, but she’s still smiling. “Cocky.”

I wink. “You like it.”

Her mouth presses into a line—not denying it.

I step closer, pressing my hand against the house’s wooden siding, looking up at her. “Come out, Magnolia.”

She hesitates, her fingers curling against the windowsill. I see the battle in her—see the way her chest rises and falls too fast, see the way the moonlight turns her dark eyes fever-bright.

She wants this.

Wants me.

“I shouldn’t,” she murmurs, like she’s trying to convince herself more than me.

I nod. “I know.”

She exhales, the sound shaky. “I should go back to bed.”

I drag my teeth over my bottom lip. “You could.”

Her hands tighten around the sill. “Colt…”

I let the sound of my name settle deep, let it burn slow through my chest.

Then, quietly, honestly?—

“I miss you.”

Magnolia’s fingers tighten on the windowsill, like she’s trying to steady herself against the pull between us. My breath comes slow, steady, even though my whole body is burning. My wolf paces inside me, desperate to close the distance, to touch, to taste, to claim—but I don’t move.

Then she glances at the trellis.

“If you’re going to throw rocks at my window, you may as well lean into it and climb up the trellis too,” she teases.

And then she disappears…leaving the window open.

That’s an invitation.

Hand bracing against the trellis, I test the weight of it before hauling myself up. Magnolia’s scent drifts down to me, thick in the summer air, sending a shudder through my body. The wood is rough beneath my palms, but I barely feel it. My focus is singular—climbing, reaching, getting to her. The window yawns open, the night spilling into her room…and I grip the frame, muscles coiled, and push myself through.

She’s waiting.

Sitting on the bed, knees drawn up beneath her, the moonlight painting her in soft silver. Her nightgown pools around her thighs, the fabric barely clinging to her, slipping off one shoulder. Her hair is a mess of dark curls, her lips parted just slightly, like she’s still catching her breath.

Like she didn’t expect me to actually do it.

I don’t want to rush her. I need to give her time. If my wolf had his way, I would be on her, inside her in seconds, giving her what we both crave.

But no…I want to make this work. Make it last.

Her gaze flickers over me as I straighten to my full height in her room, slow and assessing, like she’s memorizing the moment. Like she’s letting herself want this.

I take a single step forward.

Magnolia’s breath hitches.

“We have to be quiet,” she breathes. “My family’s asleep.”

“How very un-good girl of you, Magnolia,” I purr, taking another step forward. “This is downright naughty.”

She doesn’t look away. Doesn’t back down.

Instead, her lips quirk up, slow and knowing. “You think I’m a good girl, Colt?”

I let my gaze drag over her, taking in the soft nightgown slipping off her shoulder, the way her legs shift, thighs pressing together like she’s already feeling it. Like she’s already burning for me.

I hum. “Think you like being one.” Another slow step forward. “Think you like being sweet. Soft. Proper.” I tilt my head, voice dropping. “But I also think…you like this more.”

Her throat bobs. “This?”

I stop at the edge of her bed, hands bracing on the mattress, leaning in. “Breaking the rules.”

A breathless little laugh, but her fingers twist in the sheets, betraying her. “There are no rules against talking, Colt.”

I smirk. “Talking’s not what you’re worried about, is it?”

She doesn’t answer.

Doesn’t have to.

The bond between us hums, curling warm and wanting through my chest.

I lift a hand, tracing the edge of her nightgown where it’s slipped off her shoulder, barely touching, just enough to feel the heat of her. “I can hear your heart racing, angel.” My fingers trail lower, brushing over the bare skin of her arm. “I can smell how bad you want me.”

She inhales sharply, her lashes fluttering. “Cocky.”

I grin. “Honest.”

Her gaze flickers to my mouth, then back up. “You gonna keep talking all night?”

I arch a brow. “That an invitation?”

She huffs, exasperated and wanting, and grips the front of my shirt, yanking me closer. My breath punches out of me, my hands bracing on either side of her hips, caging her in.

And then she kisses me.

And just like that, I’m gone.