Page 13 of Tempted By the Alpha Outlaw

Her touch is warm, but it also feels like a warning. I nod. “I hear you, Mom.”

She studies me for a moment longer, then nods. “Alright,” she says, stepping back. “But you tell me if anything feels off. Promise me that.”

“I promise,” I say, even as my mind drifts back to Colt—the way his sharp eyes had softened, just for a moment, when he looked at me.

How would he look at me if I asked him to kiss me? If I asked him to hold me?

Mom leaves the kitchen, her footsteps fading back into the dining room. I finish the dishes mechanically, my movements automatic as my mind churns. Colt is dangerous—Mom’s right about that. But there’s something about him, something that doesn’t just scare me.

It pulls me, like a current I can’t fight.

And as much as I want to heed Mom’s warning and continue to be the golden child, I can’t stop wondering if there’s more to Colt Morgan than the danger he wears like armor.

And even if there’s not…I’m certain I want to be the one to find out.

5

COLT

The 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.

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