Page 5

5

COLT

T he den’s community center is ordered chaos every night at dinner. Plates clatter, laughter rings out, and conversations overlap in a way that feels almost overwhelming. It’s not the kind of loud that grates on you, though. It’s warm, familiar, the sound of people who trust each other and don’t have to look over their shoulders every second of the day.

It’s the kind of sound that reminds me I don’t belong here.

I shift in my seat at the long, handmade wooden table, trying to keep my shoulders relaxed. No one’s paying me much attention—except Frankie, who’s been shooting me daggers since the moment I walked in. She’s sitting a few seats down, her arms crossed and her mouth set in a hard line, like she’s just waiting for me to screw up.

Fine by me. She can wait all she wants. I’m good at keeping people guessing.

It’s been a few days since I rolled into the Austin Den, and I’ve been keeping myself busy, trying to avoid exactly this kind of scrutiny. The workshop has been my sanctuary—if you could call a dusty, half-collapsed garage a sanctuary. I’ve spent hours sorting through the mess, fixing up tools, and slowly coaxing life back into the generator that runs on its last leg. It’s the kind of work that keeps my hands busy and my mind quiet, and most of the time, I’ve been left alone.

Except for Frankie.

I don’t know what her deal is, but she seems to think it’s her personal mission to keep tabs on me. Every time I turn around, she’s there—leaning against the doorframe, or conveniently needing to grab something from the farthest corner of the workshop.

She doesn’t say much, but her eyes do plenty of talking.

I’m not doing anything wrong—well, not blatantly. Sure, I’ve pocketed a thing or two that no one seemed to be using, but nothing big enough to raise alarms. Just little stuff—a wrench here, a coil of wire there. Tools I can actually use. Still, Frankie acts like she’s waiting to catch me red-handed.

It doesn’t help that she seems to pop up at the worst times—like yesterday, when I was halfway through patching up a busted ATV. I was covered in grease, cursing under my breath because the damn carburetor was stuck, and there she was, leaning in the doorway with her arms crossed.

“Need something?” I’d asked, not bothering to hide my irritation.

She’d just shrugged, her gaze sweeping over me and the mess I was working in. “Just making sure you’re staying out of trouble.”

“Trouble?” I’d echoed, forcing a grin. “In here? Doesn’t seem likely.”

She hadn’t laughed. Frankie doesn’t strike me as someone who laughs much, especially not at guys like me. Instead, she’d just muttered something under her breath and left.

And now here she is again, glaring at me like she’s trying to see through my skin.

The smell of roasted meat, fresh bread, and peach cobbler wafts through the air, making my stomach growl. Before I came here, it had been a while since I’d had a proper meal, and the sight of the heaping plates on the table makes my mouth water. The den knows how to take care of its own. They’re not just surviving—they’re living.

And right in the middle of it all is Magnolia.

She’s sitting a few seats away, talking animatedly with two other women. Her laugh carries above the noise, soft and melodic, and I catch glimpses of her profile as she turns toward them. She’s the picture of ease, her dark, glossy hair catching the light and her warm brown skin glowing in the golden hue of the overhead lanterns. She leans forward to coo at the baby in one woman’s arms, her smile so genuine it makes my chest ache.

I shouldn’t be looking at her. I know that. But I can’t seem to help myself. She’s magnetic…drawing my eye no matter where I sit, no matter how hard I try not to look.

People are starting to notice.

I can’t force myself to care.

"Pretty, isn’t she?" a voice mutters from beside me.

I glance over to see Grant—that redheaded alpha from day one—grinning at me like he’s about to say something I won’t want to hear. I tamp down the growl that churns in my chest, an instinctive response to anyone talking about my woman .

Not that Magnolia’s mine.

Damn it.

“What’s it to you?” I grumble, grabbing a piece of bread from the basket in front of me.

Grant chuckles, his grin widening. “Relax, man. Just making conversation. She’s kind of hard not to notice, you know? Got that whole ‘everybody loves me’ thing going on.”

I grunt, noncommittal, but the way his grin softens catches my attention. He leans back in his chair, crossing his arms loosely over his chest. “Maggie’s special. Golden girl around here, you know? Kids adore her, people light up when she comes around…even Frankie’s got a soft spot for her, though she’d never admit it.”

I glance at him sideways, not sure where he’s going with this. “What’s your point?”

Grant raises his hands in mock surrender. “Just saying, she’s the kind of person people look out for. The pack…they’d go to war for her if it came down to it.”

His words settle in my chest like a weight, but I don’t let it show. “She’s lucky, then.”

He shrugs. “Sure. But Maggie’s no damsel in distress. She’s tough in her own way—doesn’t take crap from anyone.” He pauses, a lopsided grin pulling at his mouth. “I learned that the hard way.”

That gets my attention. I glance at him, narrowing my eyes. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Grant chuckles. “First couple weeks I was here, I thought, ‘Hey, she’s sweet, she’s single, why not try my luck?’ So, I did.” He glances at me, his grin widening. “Didn’t even make it past the first conversation. She shut me down so fast, I think I got whiplash.”

I raise an eyebrow, not quite able to picture it. “What’d you say?”

He winces, a little self-deprecating. “Something dumb, probably. Tried to charm her. Maggie? She just gave me this look. Not angry, not annoyed—just…like she saw right through me. Like she knew I wasn’t serious.”

I let out a low snort, trying not to look too interested. “And?”

Grant laughs, shaking his head. “And that was it. She was polite about it—Maggie’s always polite—but it was clear as day. She’s not the kind of woman you mess around with unless you mean it.”

“Good to know.”

Grant leans forward, resting his elbows on the table. “Look, I’m not trying to scare you off or anything. Just…Maggie’s the heart of this place. People notice when she smiles, but they notice even more when something bothers her. You’d be smart to remember that.”

I glance at him, his tone catching me off guard. For all his obnoxiousness, there’s a sincerity to his words that throws me off balance.

“Appreciate the advice,” I say after a beat, keeping my voice neutral.

Grant grins, the moment of seriousness fading as he leans back in his chair. “No problem. But hey, good luck. You’re gonna need it.”

I grunt, not dignifying that with a response. He turns back to the conversation on his other side, and I’m left with my thoughts—and my gaze, which keeps drifting back to Magnolia. She’s laughing at something one of her friends said, her whole face lighting up with that warm, easy smile of hers.

She’s good. Too good.

It makes me want her even more.

I grit my teeth, forcing myself to look away. I focus instead on the old man sitting to my right, his weathered hands reaching for a cup of tea.

The man’s wristwatch catches my eye. It’s simple, an old leather band with a scratched face, but it’s functional. The kind of thing I could use. My fingers twitch at the thought, the familiar pull of an opportunity too good to pass up.

The guilt hits me before I even move. It’s small, but it’s there, annoying the hell out of me.

Bad habits are hard to break.

I wait until the man’s attention is elsewhere, his focus on a conversation with someone across the table. My hand moves quickly, brushing against his wrist as I fake reaching for the breadbasket. The watch slips off easily, and it’s in my pocket a second later.

No one notices. No one ever does.

It satisfies the craving, scratches the itch. At least for now.

“Morgan.”

The sound of my last name pulls me out of my thoughts, and I glance up to see Frankie glaring at me from across the table. Her eyes flick to my hand, then back to my face.

I meet her gaze evenly, raising an eyebrow. “What?” I ask, voice flat, leaning back in my chair like I’ve got nothing to hide.

“Nothing.” Her tone is sharp, clipped, carrying just enough bite to remind me she’s not here to play games. “Just watching you.”

I snort at her bluntness. “Well, don’t strain yourself,” I reply, keeping my voice casual, even as my smirk edges toward mockery. “I’m flattered, but I’m not interested.”

Grant huffs out a surprised laugh as Frankie’s jaw tightens. She’s not looking at me like she’s trying to figure me out—she’s looking at me like she already has, and she doesn’t like what she sees. It’s the kind of scrutiny I’m used to, but it still grates.

But before either of us can push it further, Magnolia’s laugh floats through the room, light and warm, dissolving the tension like sunlight breaking through clouds. My gaze shifts to her instantly, drawn in without permission, and the irritation I felt moments ago softens.

She’s holding the baby now, cradling the little one against her chest as she coos. Her voice is gentle, soothing, and the sight of her with the baby does something strange to me.

My wolf…he’s fucking feral at the sight of that. That omega belongs to me, he says. She’s mine to rut, to knot, to breed.

He has all kinds of sinful thoughts that don’t belong in a wholesome place like this.