Page 8

8

COLT

A lright…so maybe I’m playing dirty.

I know she wasn’t asking me out. I know I shouldn’t fuck around with her.

And yet, here I am…at story night.

The den’s community center is packed by the time I arrive, the warm glow of lanterns casting long, flickering shadows across the walls. People are gathered in clusters, some seated on chairs and benches, others lounging on blankets spread out over the floor. The air buzzes with quiet anticipation, the hum of conversation underscored by the occasional burst of laughter.

Magnolia is near the front, sitting cross-legged on the floor and absolutely surrounded by children. She’s smiling as she talks to an older woman, her expression relaxed. She catches my eye, lifting a hand in a small wave, her smile soft and inviting. I nod back, forcing myself to stay where I am at the edge of the room.

For someone like me, it’s safer to stick to the shadows.

Frankie, of course, is already there, leaning against the far wall with her arms crossed–probably having waited for me this whole time. Her gaze sweeps over the crowd, but it doesn’t take long for her eyes to land on me. She scowls at me, eyes narrowed.

Fine. I can live with that. Doesn’t matter to me.

I ignore her, tuning in as Magnolia stands. She smiles around at the room, clasping her hands.

“Alright, everyone,” she says, her voice warm and clear, cutting through the hum of conversation. “Thank you for being here tonight. Story night is one of my favorite traditions, and I think it’s safe to say it’s one of the pack’s too.”

The crowd murmurs in agreement, and Magnolia’s smile widens. She looks so at ease, so at home, that it makes my chest ache. She’s magnetic, effortlessly pulling everyone’s attention, mine included.

“Before we start,” she continues, her tone turning playful, “a quick reminder: no sneaking seconds on dessert until we’re done. Yes, I’m looking at you, Grant.” Laughter ripples through the room as Grant grins and raises his hands in mock surrender.

“Alright,” Magnolia says, her gaze sweeping over the crowd. “Who wants to go first?”

There’s a brief pause before she nods toward an older man sitting near the center of the room. “Mr. Clayton,” she says, her voice gentle. “You told me earlier you might have a story to share?”

The man—thin and wiry, with weathered hands and a kind face—nods slowly. He stands and the room falls silent as he makes his way to the front. Magnolia steps aside, smiling as she hands him the floor.

“Thank you, Maggie,” he says. “I’ve got a story for you all tonight. It’s not one of those grand tales of bravery or adventure. Just…a memory.”

I recognize this guy–and I realize with a pang of dread that it’s the man whose watch I stole just a couple nights ago. The watch that’s now sitting, unused, in a hidey hole in my workshop.

“This story’s about a watch,” Clayton begins, holding up his wrist to show the bare patch of skin where a watch used to be.

Oh, come on.

“My father gave me that watch when I turned twenty,” Clayton says. “It wasn’t much—not fancy, not expensive. Just a plain old watch with a leather band and a scratched-up face. But it meant something to him. He called it his lucky charm.”

The room falls into reverent silence, and I swear I can feel the heat of Frankie’s eyes boring into the side of my skull. I shift uncomfortably.

Clayton’s voice is steady, but each word is like a punch to the gut. “When the Convergence hit, and the world started falling apart, that watch was one of the only things we had left of him. He didn’t make it, but the watch did. And it kept ticking.”

Oh, for fuck’s sake.

Clayton pauses, looking out at the crowd with a faint, wistful smile. “That watch has been with me through everything. It’s a reminder of him, of where I came from, of what it means to keep going no matter how hard things get.”

Holy hell. He’s practically writing my guilt trip into a screenplay. Who does this? Who just shows up to story night with a perfect little moral lesson tailored for the exact asshole in the room? Any second now, Clayton’s going to turn, point at me, and say, “And now it’s gone. I sure hope it’s in good hands.”

I shift again, leaning back against the wall and folding my arms, trying to look casual. Normal. Like a guy who definitely didn’t swipe an old man’s lucky charm.

As Clayton wraps up, the room erupts into applause. Magnolia claps too, her smile soft and radiant as she looks at Clayton like he’s the wisest man in the world.

Perfect. Just perfect. Now she’s even more of an angel, and I’m an even bigger piece of shit.

When Clayton nods and makes his way back to his seat, I let out a slow breath, trying to shake off the mix of guilt and sheer cosmic irony. But the damn watch won’t let me forget. It’s like the universe saw me rolling into the Austin Den and said, You know what this guy needs? A very specific lesson in not being a dick.

Maggie’s friend Peaches—the redhead she’s always hanging out with—steps up next, her head held high as she walks to the center of the room. I’m still stewing over the fact that I am very, very confident that everyone here knows I stole that watch, but as Peaches takes a deep breath, my attention shifts. She hesitates for just a moment, her hands clasped in front of her, then begins her story.

“This is a story about freedom,” she says. “About finding it, fighting for it, and holding onto it, even when it feels impossible.”

The room goes still, the kind of silence that wraps around you and demands your focus. Her words hang in the air like smoke, curling into every corner of the space. I shift uncomfortably in my seat, my chest tightening as she starts weaving her tale.

“It’s about a girl,” she says, her voice soft but unwavering. “A girl who grew up in a gilded cage, ruled by a cruel king who demanded loyalty but gave none in return. A girl who was told she should be grateful for the bars that kept her in, because they also kept others out.”

My stomach drops. I know this story.

Peaches’ voice trembles slightly, but she doesn’t stop. “The girl lived in fear—fear of the king’s anger, fear of the punishments that came when she dared to dream of something more. But she couldn’t stop dreaming. She couldn’t stop imagining a world where she was free to be herself, to make her own choices, to breathe air that didn’t belong to anyone but her.”

Her words hit like a punch to the gut, each one sharper than the last. I feel the weight of them pressing down on me, heavier with every breath she takes. I know this cage. I know this king. And I know the girl who escaped.

She’s standing right in front of me.

“The girl knew freedom wouldn’t come easy,” Peaches continues, her voice growing stronger, steadier. “She knew she would have to risk everything—her safety, her comfort, her life—just to take one step closer to it. But she also knew she couldn’t stay. That no matter how terrifying the unknown was, it couldn’t be worse than the prison she was in.”

I can’t look away from her. The way her hands tremble slightly, the way her voice wavers for just a second before she pushes through—it all speaks to a truth I can’t ignore. She’s not just telling a story. She’s reliving it.

My chest tightens as the pieces fall into place. The Gulf Pack. The bounty. The hefty reward they dangled in front of me like a carrot. They hired me to find her and the others like her, to drag them back to that hell they fought so hard to escape. And now, hearing her speak, seeing the quiet strength in her posture, the determination in her eyes, I feel something I didn’t expect.

Guilt.

I glance at Magnolia. She’s watching Peaches with a look of pure pride, her hands clasped in front of her like she’s holding herself back from rushing forward to offer comfort or encouragement. When Peaches’ voice cracks on the next line, Magnolia leans forward slightly, her expression soft and full of affection.

Something twists in my gut. I shouldn’t be here. I shouldn’t be listening to this. And I sure as hell shouldn’t be sitting in the middle of this den, pretending I belong, when my job is to take all of this away.

Peaches takes a shaky breath, her eyes scanning the crowd as she nears the end of her story. “Freedom isn’t something that’s given to you,” she says. “It’s something you have to fight for, something you have to take. And when you finally taste it…when you finally breathe that first breath of air that’s yours and yours alone…it’s worth it. Every scar, every tear, every moment of fear—it’s worth it.”

The room erupts into applause as she finishes, the crowd rising to their feet. Magnolia is the first to reach her, pulling her into a hug so tight it’s like she’s trying to shield her from the world. My hands curl into fists at my sides, my wolf restless and pacing, unsettled by the weight of what I’m here to do.

I should be planning my next move, figuring out how to report back to the Gulf Pack without raising suspicion. But all I can think about is the way Peaches’ voice trembled when she talked about the cage, the way Magnolia’s smile lit up the room when she hugged her, the way my chest feels like it’s caving in under the weight of what I’ve been hired to do.

Frankie’s eyes catch mine from across the room. She knows something’s off.

She can sense it.

When the night winds down, the crowd begins to thin, families gathering their children and heading home. I hang back, watching as Magnolia gathers a few leftover plates from the tables, as she throws a forgotten scarf into the lost and found bin. For once, Frankie seems to have left me off the hook, though I have no idea where she ran off to.

I don’t particularly care.

It’s giving me an opportunity to stare.

Magnolia’s movements are careful, the kind of unhurried that makes me think she’s never rushed a thing in her life. She’s not fidgety or nervous, just…steady. It’s impossible not to notice the way her hand brushes a stray curl out of her face or how her smile lingers a little too long as she listens to an old woman who stuck around. Magnolia…she’s always listening, always present. It’s magnetic in a way I can’t shake.

She doesn’t see me watching her, and I should probably feel bad about how obvious I’m being.

But I don’t.

Because there’s no one else here who’s got me anchored to this place like she does. Everyone else is a blur, a buzz of voices and movement fading into the background.

It’s just her.

And it’s not just about how she looks, though that doesn’t exactly help. She’s beautiful, sure, but it’s the way she carries herself—like she’s the calm center of whatever chaos surrounds her. The warmth in her voice when she says goodbye to the old lady makes my chest ache, and I don’t know what to do with that.

I tell myself I should walk away, let her finish cleaning up and leave without noticing me. That’d be the smart move. But before I can think too much about it, I’m stepping forward, cutting through the room until I’m right in front of her.

She looks up when I’m close enough that there’s no mistaking my intent, her dark eyes widening slightly, like she’s surprised but not afraid. I catch the quick flicker of her gaze over me—just for a second—before she forces herself to meet my eyes.

“You’re leaving?” My voice is rougher than I mean for it to be, and I don’t bother softening it.

Magnolia glances at the plates in her hands, then back up at me. “Just cleaning up first,” she says. There’s a small hitch in her voice, not nervous exactly, but like she’s trying to figure out where this is going. She sets the plates onto the stack at the end of the table, her movements slower than usual, like she’s stalling. “I guess I should head out soon, though. It’s getting late.”

I let her words hang between us, and for once, I don’t overthink it. “Can I walk you home?” I ask. The question is out before I can take it back, and I don’t want to. I try to cover for it with a smirk, saying, “I mean…you did ask me out, after all.”

That flusters her. She blinks, her lips parting slightly like she wasn’t expecting that. “Oh,” she says, her voice soft, like she’s not sure how to answer. “You don’t have to?—”

“I want to.” I cut her off before she can find a polite way to say no. My voice dips lower, but there’s no hesitation in it. “If that’s okay.”

She studies me, and for a moment, I think she’s going to say no. Not because she doesn’t trust me, but because she knows better. Knows I’m not the kind of man you take risks on.

But then she nods, a small, barely-there motion that makes her curls shift against her shoulder. “Okay,” she says.

It’s just one word, but it flips something over in me. I don’t know if I want to feel redeemed or ruined by her, but either way, it feels inevitable. I step aside to let her lead the way, and as she moves past me, her scent—sweet and warm—catches in the air. It clings to me long after she’s already turned toward the door.

And when I follow her, I’m already questioning what the hell I think I’m doing.

But there’s no stopping it now.