Page 27 of Tempted By the Alpha Outlaw

I wince, stopping with my hand halfway to the door.

I freeze, my hand halfway to the workshop door, and let out a groan under my breath. “Frankie,” I mutter, turning to face her.

She’s leaning against the wall, just barely visible. Her eyes gleam with that eerie iridescence that only comes with a partial shift, just enough to remind me that she could rip me apart if she wanted to. Her arms are crossed, her posture casual, but everything about her screams, I’m not here to play nice.

“What do you want?” I ask, dropping my hand and mirroring her stance, crossing my arms over my chest. I’m bigger than she is, but Frankie has a way of making size irrelevant. She’s like a loaded gun—small, but ready to fire at the slightest provocation.

Her head tilts, her lips curling into a faint smirk. “Just out for a stroll,” she says, her tone dripping with false innocence. “Thought I’d see what you were up to.”

“Uh-huh,” I say, my voice dry. “And what’s the verdict? Am I up to no good?”

She doesn’t answer right away, sizing me up with a look. “You tell me,” she says finally. “What’s got you so distracted tonight, Morgan? Thinking about the walk you just took with Maggie Jones?”

There it is. The bait.

I grin, leaning against the doorframe as if her glare isn’t threatening to set me on fire. “What’s it to you, Frankie?” I ask, keeping my tone light. “Jealous?”

Her jaw tightens, but she doesn’t rise to it. “Jealous?” she repeats, her voice low. “Not likely.”

“Really?” I press, smirking now. “Because you sure seem invested in what I’m doing. Always watching me, always lurking in the shadows. Starting to think you’ve got a little crush.”

Her eyes narrow, that faint glow flashing brighter for a second. “Careful,” she says. “You’re not as funny as you think you are.”

“Come on, Frankie,” I tease, straightening up and taking a step closer. “You can admit it. I get it—tough alpha like you probably doesn’t get to cut loose much. Must be exhausting, carrying all that righteous anger around.”

She steps away from the wall, and for a second, I wonder if she’s about to swing. She doesn’t, but the threat remains. “You think this is a joke?” she says, her voice quiet but dangerous.

I shrug. “Not a joke. Just…not your business.”

She cocks her head at me. “The women of this pack are my business,” she says. “Reyes is all about giving folks the benefit of the doubt, but that means somebody has to watch out for our people, and that person is me.”

I take a step closer, challenging her. “Magnolia’s a grown woman. She doesn’t need you babysitting her.”

“She doesn’t need you either,” Frankie counters. “So why don’t you make it easy for everyone and leave her alone before you screw this up?”

I laugh, shaking my head. “You really don’t like me, huh?”

“No,” she says bluntly. “I don’t.”

My grin drops, replaced with a snarl. “Well, the feeling’s mutual,” I say. “So why don’t you save us both the trouble and mind your own business?”

Her glare sharpens, and for a moment, I think she’s going to push it further. But then she takes a step back, her posture relaxing just enough to show that she’s done—for now.

“Just remember what I said, Morgan,” she says, her tone cold. “You hurt her–you hurt anyone in this den–and I’ll make sure you regret it.”

With that, she turns on her heel and stalks off into the shadows, leaving me standing there with my heart pounding and my wolf growling low in my chest.

"Yeah," I mutter to the empty air. "Got it loud and clear."

I give her a couple minutes to put some distance between us before I yank the door open and stalk inside the workshop. Inside, it’s quiet, the air heavy with the smell of oil and rust. It’s a mess—tools scattered across the bench, wires draped haphazardly over crates, Magnolia’s half-disassembled projector sitting dead center like it’s mocking me for my lack of focus.

I can’t even do what she asked me to; I’m too distracted by the temptation she presents.

I drop my jacket on a chair and head straight for the projector, flicking on the lamp hanging over the workbench. The weak yellow glow spills across the metal casing, highlighting the scratches and dents I’d tried to ignore earlier.

“Alright,” I mutter to myself, pulling a screwdriver from the pile of tools. “Let’s see if we can get you to play nice.”

The rhythmic click of the screwdriver against the screws fills the room as I work to dismantle the projector further. It’s the kind of thing that should calm me down, let me lose myself in the motions and forget about Frankie’s threats—or the way Magnolia looked at me tonight, like I was something worth risking her composure for.

---