Page 42 of Tempted By the Alpha Outlaw

I hand Colt a piece of bread, the soft crust golden from the oven, and a small jar of strawberry preserves. He takes them without a word, though his smirk remains as he watches me spread a dollop of jam on my own slice.

“Homemade?” he asks, lifting the bread and inspecting it like it’s something precious.

“Of course,” I say, smiling proudly. “My mom makes the bread, and the preserves are from the berries we grow in the garden. She started teaching me how to do it when I was little.”

“Figures,” he mutters, taking a bite. “You’d be the kind of person who knows how to make jam.”

I pause mid-bite, raising an eyebrow. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

He shrugs, wiping a crumb from the corner of his mouth. “It means you’re, I don’t know…domestic. Like you belong in one of those old picture books. The ones with perfect little farms and sunshine and kids running barefoot.”

I laugh, shaking my head. “You don’t know me very well, do you?”

His eyes narrow slightly. “Then tell me. What don’t I know?”

I hesitate, running my fingers along the edge of the jar. “It’s not that simple,” I say. “You think you see me, but the truth is…I don’t even know if I see myself anymore.”

“What do you mean?” he asks.

I glance out at the meadow, the breeze tugging at the flowers, their petals swaying like they’re dancing in the sun. “When I was a kid, everyone used to call me the den’s golden child,” I begin. “I was Sarita and Bruce Jones’ daughter. The perfect little omega who always did what she was supposed to. Helped take care of the other kids, followed the rules, never made trouble. And I guess I thought…if I just kept being that person, everything would be okay. I’d be okay.”

“But?” Colt prompts.

I exhale, shaking my head. “But now, I don’t know who I am outside of that. Outside of the den, of everyone’s expectations. I’ve spent so much time trying to be what everyone else needed me to be, and now…” I trail off, gesturing vaguely toward the meadow. “Now, I’m sitting here with you, realizing I’ve barely even seen the world outside the borders of our home.”

Colt is quiet for a moment. He reaches for the thermos of coffee, pouring some into one of the small cups I packed. “You’re seeing it now,” he says finally, his voice calm but firm. “Maybe not all of it, but you’re seeing something. That counts for something.”

“Does it?” I ask.

“It does,” he says, handing me the cup. His fingers brush mine briefly, and the contact sends a jolt through me. “The world doesn’t just show up on your doorstep. You’ve got to go after it. And sitting here, eating breakfast in the middle of a damn meadow with me? That’s a start.”

I take the cup from him, our fingers lingering a moment longer than necessary before I pull away. The warmth of his touch lingers, and I find myself smiling despite the weight of the conversation. “Maybe you’re right,” I say, taking a sip of the coffee.

“Of course I’m right,” he teases, though his smirk doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “I always am.”

I laugh, shaking my head. “You’re impossible.”

“And you’re too hard on yourself,” he counters, his tone turning serious again. “You’ve done more for your people than most alphas ever could. You’ve been there for them, kept them safe. That’s no small thing, Magnolia.”

His words catch me off guard, a lump forming in my throat. “I guess,” I say quietly, staring down at the coffee cup in my hands. “But sometimes, I wonder if that’s all there is for me. If that’s all I’ll ever be—a caretaker. A placeholder.”

Colt leans forward, his gaze intense. “You’re not a placeholder,” he says. “Not to me.”

My heart does that stupid stuttering thing it always does with him, and I swallow hard, laughing. “Gosh…I’m just going on and on about myself, and it occurs to me I hardly know anything about you. Feels rude.”

He shrugs. “I’m not that interesting.”

I laugh. “I find that difficult to believe.”

Colt’s smile fades, and for once, it’s his turn to avert his eyes, looking down at the picnic blanket. “Nah…I mean it. Hard to be interesting when you don’t have much history.”

I frown. “What does that mean?”

“Means, as far as my brain is concerned, I’ve only got about…I don’t know, eight years?” he says, reaching up to ruffle his hair like that will help him jolt something free. “Got out of a Host lab with absolutely nothing. No idea where I got my tattoos, what they mean, no idea who I was. Even my name…I got it from a dead man I escaped with.”

I stare at him, my breath catching in my throat as his words sink in. “You don’t remember anything? Not even a little?”

Colt shakes his head, his jaw tightening. “Nothing worth remembering, I guess. Just fragments, here and there. A few flashes—faces I can’t place, voices I don’t recognize. It’s like trying to piece together a puzzle when half the pieces are missing and the rest don’t even fit.”

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