Page 32 of Tempted By the Alpha Outlaw

“Gonna claim you,” he growls in the fantasy, and I can almost feel the rumble of his voice. “Mine.”

The word sends a thrill through me, electrifying every nerve ending in my body. The room around me fades away until there’s only the two of us. His voice echoes in my ears again, commanding and raw.

“Come for me,” he orders.

And I do.

I come undone beneath my own hands, beneath the weight of his imagined touch. A cry escapes from my lips as pleasure overwhelms me, and I move the hand from my breast to clamp down over my mouth. I can’t let anyone hear.

But it doesn’t stop. My fingers are still inside me, pretending to be Cole’s cock, my pussy clenching. And Colt…his scent is everywhere, the fantasy of him overwhelming me. I come again right away, my body curling in on itself with a flood of deep, intense desire.

When I finally open my eyes, the tension in my body has eased, but the ache in my chest remains. I get out of bed to find myself unsteady on my feet, and I go to the dresser to take out a t-shirt and shorts to wear to sleep. As I pass the window, I almost think I see him out there.

If he came back…would I let him in?

Would he do all the things I imagined? More?

I shouldn’t feel this way. I shouldn’t want him. My mom’s warning rings in my ears, but it can’t drown out the pull I feel toward him, the way his presence makes everything else fade away.

I know it’s reckless. Dangerous, even.

But as I drift toward sleep, the last thing I think about is the taste of his name on my lips.

Colt.

12

COLT

The weak morning light filters through the slats of the workshop’s blinds as I stare down at the half-disassembled projector. Tools are scattered across the workbench, wires trailing from the machine like guts spilling out of a carcass. I’ve been at this thing for hours, trying to piece it back together, and yet it still refuses to cooperate.

It’s not just stubborn. It’s missing something.

“Yeah…you’re not the only one, buddy,” I mutter to the projector.

I grab the projector’s manual from the bench—a worn, yellowed booklet Magnolia handed me when she first brought the thing in. Flipping through the pages, my frustration grows as I double-check the diagrams. Yeah, it’s definitely missing a part. Some kind of specialized filament or circuit that must’ve given out years ago.

Of course.

“Perfect,” I mutter, tossing the manual aside and running a hand down my face. The thought of having to tell Magnolia I can’t fix it sends a sour twist through my gut. I told her I’d get it working. She trusted me to fix it.

Trust. That’s not something I’ve earned much of around here. And it’s not something I deserve, not with what I’m hiding.

The beacon. The Gulf Pack’s message, waiting for my reply. I’d covered the signal device up last night like that would somehow erase the guilt clawing at my chest. I should’ve answered already, given them what they’re waiting for.

But every time I think about it, about sending that message, my mind circles back to Magnolia.

To Peaches.

I can’t even bring myself to think of her as Esther—the name the Gulf Pack used when they hired me. No, she’s Peaches now, the girl who told a story about freedom and courage that cut straight through my bullshit. I feel it every time I look at her. It’s a reminder of what I’m here to take from her, and every second I don’t send that message is another second I’m digging myself deeper into trouble.

I shake my head, trying to push the thought away as I grab my jacket. If I don’t want to face the Gulf Pack—or the truth of what I’m doing here—then I can at least distract myself by solving the damn projector problem. Someone around here has to know where I can get what I need.

The cool morning air greets me as I step outside, the scent of dew and wood smoke hanging in the air. The den’s common area is already alive with activity—kids running across the lawn, a few pack members gathered around an old picnic table, chatting over steaming mugs of coffee. Beyond them, a few women stand by a line of laundry strung up between two poles, the fabric flapping gently in the breeze. They chat as they work, one of them shaking out a sheet before clipping it to the line, the motion effortless and practiced. A toddler wobbles at her feet, his tiny hands clutching at her skirt as he babbles happily to himself.

It’s all so very normal.

So fucking charming it feels designed to make me feel like a dick.

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