Page 13 of The Alpha’s Forced Plus-Size Mate (Silverfang Creek Wolves #3)

The world seemed to slow down as I leaned against the porch railing, the wood warm under my palms in the late morning sun. Dad was leaning next to me, drying his forehead on the ever-present bandana from his pocket. It was a hot, early fall day, only two days from the mating ritual, and we had been hard at work bringing in the wood to put together raised garden beds for Naomi.

It might have been a little much for a post-mating gift, but I used the excuse that I had planned to overhaul the backyard of my house anyway. It was a little white life that Naomi would never be any of the wiser about.

Plus, watching her move about the space, joy obvious on her face, made it all worth it.

She was barefoot, her toes sunk into the soil as if she could draw life directly from the earth. Her hair was piled in a loose, haphazard bun, tendrils falling into her face as she moved. Dirt streaked her cheek, smudged her arms, but she didn’t seem to care.

I hadn’t known what to say at the time, too caught up in the unexpected comparison. Now, as I watched Naomi in the garden, I understood exactly what he meant.

The sunlight caught on her sandy-brown hair, illuminating it like a halo as she knelt beside a row of wilting vegetables. Her hands moved deftly, coaxing the plants upright, whispering to them under her breath. I couldn’t hear her words, but the soft cadence of her voice carried on the breeze, weaving a spell over the garden—and over me.

The flower beds she’d tackled the day before were already showing signs of revival, their colors more vibrant, the blooms fuller. She had this way of making everything she touched better, brighter. It wasn’t just her hands; it was something deeper, something in her presence.

I couldn’t stop staring.

My father had laughed when I told him she’d agreed to the mating ritual, though it was more of a knowing chuckle than anything cruel. He’d said something about fate being stubborn, about how I’d always been a force of nature when it came to getting what I wanted.

“She’s like your mother, you know.”

The words shocked me out of my oblivion, shaking me hard. Dad hardly ever spoke about my mother anymore. The memories were too painful. “W-what?”

Peter Turner, my father, the previous Alpha of the Red Canines, smiled sadly. “The way she tends to everything she touches. Even the messiness—it’s a charm, not a flaw.”

Her laughter broke through my thoughts, soft and airy, carried on the wind like a melody. She’d found something—an earthworm maybe, or a stubborn root she couldn’t pull—and it brought a smile to her face.

It wasn’t just her carelessness with clothes or her tendency to lose herself in a task until she was smeared with dirt and sweat. It was the way she brought life to everything she touched. The way she poured herself into the world, unguarded, even after everything she’d been through. I knew that she would do the same for my ailing pack. She would be the lifeblood that we needed.

“That’s a hell of a statement to drop, Dad.”

He shrugged one shoulder, mopping his forehead again. “When you get old, it gets easier to speak your mind.”

“I’m getting us some drinks,” Naomi announced, adjusting her hair before it fell even more out of its tie. “Just let me finish this section!”

I crossed my arms over my chest, forcing myself to stay where I was, even though my wolf itched to go to her. To pull her into my arms, smear that dirt on my own hands, bury my nose in her hair, and inhale the scent of soil and sunlight that clung to her.

Instead, I stayed rooted, watching as she stood and wiped her hands on her gardening apron. The fabric was stained and wrinkled, a far cry from the polished image I associated with the Silverfangs, but she was even more beautiful because of it. She looked radiant, her cheeks flushed, her eyes bright with satisfaction.

Fuck. I loved her. When exactly did that happen?

“Caught you staring again,” my father’s voice drawled from behind me, a hint of humor in his tone.

I didn’t bother denying it.

“She’s beautiful.”

“She’s more than that,” he replied, clapping a hand on my shoulder. “She’s exactly what you need. What this place needs.”

He was right. Damn it, he was right.

I straightened, my gaze never leaving Naomi as she moved to a different section of the garden, humming softly to herself. She wasn’t just tending the earth. She was tending to me. The pack. This home.

Love. It wasn’t a revelation I wanted to face, not with everything that had happened and the constant threat of losing her looming over me like a storm cloud. But there it was, undeniable. Naomi wasn’t just my mate because of some ancient pull. She was my mate because she was Naomi.

As if summoned by the thought, Naomi appeared on the porch, carrying a tray with three glasses of lemonade. The sight of her stole my breath for the hundredth time that day.

“I thought you two could use a break,” she said, her voice light, though her cheeks flushed under my father’s watchful gaze.

She handed him a glass first, then turned to me. The lemonade was tart and sweet, ice clinking against the sides of the glass as she passed it into my hand. I barely registered it. All I saw was her—flushed, beautiful, and utterly mine.

I set the glass down on the railing after taking a single sip.

“Danny?” she asked, tilting her head, her brow furrowing in confusion.

I didn’t answer. Couldn’t. Instead, I stepped forward, wrapping my arm around her waist, and kissed her.

Her gasp of surprise melted into a soft sigh as I pulled her closer, my other hand cupping the back of her head. She tasted like lemons and sunlight, and I kissed her deeper, pouring everything I couldn’t say into that moment. When I finally pulled back, her lips were slightly swollen, her eyes wide with a mix of shock and amusement.

She slapped me in the chest with her gardening gloves, but she wasn’t mad—maybe just a touch embarrassed with me kissing her in front of my father, but fuck it. I would have kissed her no matter who was there; she was the only one that mattered.

From that moment, I couldn’t help myself. I was stuck to her side like a burr. Naomi, to her credit, didn’t try to remove me either.

When she wandered into the woods later that afternoon, I followed. Not far, just close enough to make sure she was safe. She didn’t notice me at first, her attention on the wildflowers she was picking. It wasn’t until she turned back toward the house that her eyes caught mine. She didn’t scold me this time, just rolled her eyes and muttered something under her breath.

Later, when she went to shower off the garden dirt, I grabbed an old copy of Popular Mechanics and sat on the floor outside the door. Waiting. Guarding.

When she climbed a step ladder to reach a jar on a high shelf in the pantry, I was there before she even realized she needed me. The moment the ladder wobbled, I had my arms around her, steadying her, pulling her down before she could fall.

“You’re impossible,” she muttered, but her hands still came up to cup my face before she kissed me thoroughly.

“And you’re reckless,” I shot back, setting her on the ground and reaching for the jar myself. Her lips quirked into the smallest of smiles, and it was all I needed to feel justified.

I stayed close to her for the rest of the day, ensuring she didn’t wander too far, didn’t overwork herself, and didn't risk a single damn thing. Because Naomi was mine, and I kept what belonged to me safe.

Dad hung out for a few more hours, and by the time we checked the clock again, it was nearly dinner time. Naomi asked him to stay for the meal, and together, the two of us cooked. The kitchen smelled like rosemary and garlic, the scent thick in the air as Naomi hummed softly to herself. She was standing at the stove, flipping steaks in a cast-iron skillet with the precision of someone who enjoyed the art of cooking. I leaned against the counter, pretending to dice potatoes for the roasted side dish she’d insisted on making, but mostly, I just watched her.

She moved with a kind of natural grace that always left me spellbound. It wasn’t deliberate; Naomi didn’t even realize she had that effect on me, and that only made it worse. Or better, depending on how you looked at it.

“I can feel you look at me,” she said without turning around, her voice teasing.

“You make it hard not to.”

She shook her head, hiding the smile I knew was there.

We’d fallen into a routine the past few days. She worked on her garden or tinkered in the kitchen, and I was always nearby, watching, helping when she’d let me, catching her whenever she decided to push her limits. It was a rhythm I hadn’t expected to like—hell, I hadn’t expected to fall this hard for anyone—but it felt right. She fit into my world so seamlessly that it scared me.

“Potatoes?” she prompted, nodding toward the cutting board.

I glanced down at the uneven chunks I’d hacked out of the poor vegetable and grimaced. “They’re fine.”

She stepped over, her brow lifting as she inspected my work. “You’re hopeless,” she teased, grabbing the knife from me and quickly slicing the rest with practiced ease.

Hopeless was a good word for it. I was hopelessly gone for her, and the scary part was that I didn’t even care anymore.

By the time dinner was ready, Peter had settled at the table as Naomi placed a plate in front of him. She’d made steaks, garlic-roasted potatoes, and some kind of fancy salad with goat cheese and cranberries. It wasn’t the kind of food I usually ate, but that was probably a good thing. Way too many of my meals had consisted of some kind of jerky.

“This is incredible,” Peter said, cutting into his steak.

Naomi grinned happily from the praise, brushing her hair behind her ear. “It’s nothing. Just something simple.”

I’d begun to understand something—Naomi undervalued most of her talents, which told me that no one had noticed them back in her own pack. She had lived a quiet, if lonely life. She was still embarrassed by the praise but was getting better at accepting it. By the time I’m through with her, she’ll be confident in her gifts, but it was slow going.

My father regaled us with stories from his younger days—about my mom, about the pack before I took over—and Naomi listened with rapt attention, occasionally glancing at me as if piecing together the puzzle of my life.

It was the kind of evening I never thought I’d have. Warm. Peaceful. Whole.

Until the knock shattered it.

It was loud and deliberate, cutting through the comfortable buzz of conversation. I shot out of my chair, my instincts firing on all cylinders. Naomi flinched, her fork clattering against her plate.

“Stay here,” I ordered, my voice harsher than I intended as I grabbed the shotgun leaning against the wall by the door.

Naomi’s eyes widened, and Dad rose to his feet, his hand on the knife at his belt. His old Alpha tendencies apparently weren’t totally gone, made clear when he shoved Naomi behind him and stepped forward in the protector's stance.

The knock came again, more insistent this time. The memory of the demons and their dark eyes hovering on the edge of the forest returned to me, and it made me clench my jaw. Surely not—

My grip tightened on the shotgun as I approached the door; every muscle in my body coiled like a snake, ready to strike. Whoever was on the other side had better have a damn good reason for interrupting my dinner, or they were about to regret it.

When I reached the door, I hesitated for half a second, glancing back at Naomi. Her expression was worried, but there was also a defiance beneath it. She would fight beside me if I needed her to. A true mate.

Damn, did I love that woman. That thought alone was enough to steady me.

With a deep breath, I yanked the door open, shotgun raised, and prepared for whatever the hell was about to come through.