Page 22 of Tempted By the Alpha Outlaw

Peaches’ voice trembles slightly, but she doesn’t stop. “The girl lived in fear—fear of the king’s anger, fear of the punishments that came when she dared to dream of something more. But she couldn’t stop dreaming. She couldn’t stop imagining a world where she was free to be herself, to make her own choices, to breathe air that didn’t belong to anyone but her.”

Her words hit like a punch to the gut, each one sharper than the last. I feel the weight of them pressing down on me, heavier with every breath she takes. I know this cage. I know this king. And I know the girl who escaped.

She’s standing right in front of me.

“The girl knew freedom wouldn’t come easy,” Peaches continues, her voice growing stronger, steadier. “She knew she would have to risk everything—her safety, her comfort, her life—just to take one step closer to it. But she also knew she couldn’t stay. That no matter how terrifying the unknown was, it couldn’t be worse than the prison she was in.”

I can’t look away from her. The way her hands tremble slightly, the way her voice wavers for just a second before she pushes through—it all speaks to a truth I can’t ignore. She’s not just telling a story. She’s reliving it.

My chest tightens as the pieces fall into place. The Gulf Pack. The bounty. The hefty reward they dangled in front of me like a carrot. They hired me to find her and the others like her, to drag them back to that hell they fought so hard to escape. And now, hearing her speak, seeing the quiet strength in her posture, the determination in her eyes, I feel something I didn’t expect.

Guilt.

I glance at Magnolia. She’s watching Peaches with a look of pure pride, her hands clasped in front of her like she’s holding herself back from rushing forward to offer comfort or encouragement. When Peaches’ voice cracks on the next line, Magnolia leans forward slightly, her expression soft and full of affection.

Something twists in my gut. I shouldn’t be here. I shouldn’t be listening to this. And I sure as hell shouldn’t be sitting in the middle of this den, pretending I belong, when my job is to take all of this away.

Peaches takes a shaky breath, her eyes scanning the crowd as she nears the end of her story. “Freedom isn’t something that’s given to you,” she says. “It’s something you have to fight for, something you have to take. And when you finally taste it…when you finally breathe that first breath of air that’s yours and yours alone…it’s worth it. Every scar, every tear, every moment of fear—it’s worth it.”

The room erupts into applause as she finishes, the crowd rising to their feet. Magnolia is the first to reach her, pulling her into a hug so tight it’s like she’s trying to shield her from the world. My hands curl into fists at my sides, my wolf restless and pacing, unsettled by the weight of what I’m here to do.

I should be planning my next move, figuring out how to report back to the Gulf Pack without raising suspicion. But all I can think about is the way Peaches’ voice trembled when she talked about the cage, the way Magnolia’s smile lit up the room when she hugged her, the way my chest feels like it’s caving in under the weight of what I’ve been hired to do.

Frankie’s eyes catch mine from across the room. She knows something’s off.

She can sense it.

When the night winds down, the crowd begins to thin, families gathering their children and heading home. I hang back, watching as Magnolia gathers a few leftover plates from the tables, as she throws a forgotten scarf into the lost and found bin. For once, Frankie seems to have left me off the hook, though I have no idea where she ran off to.

I don’t particularly care.

It’s giving me an opportunity to stare.

Magnolia’s movements are careful, the kind of unhurried that makes me think she’s never rushed a thing in her life. She’s not fidgety or nervous, just…steady. It’s impossible not to notice the way her hand brushes a stray curl out of her face or how her smile lingers a little too long as she listens to an old woman who stuck around. Magnolia…she’s always listening, always present. It’s magnetic in a way I can’t shake.

She doesn’t see me watching her, and I should probably feel bad about how obvious I’m being.

But I don’t.

Because there’s no one else here who’s got me anchored to this place like she does. Everyone else is a blur, a buzz of voices and movement fading into the background.

It’s just her.

And it’s not just about how she looks, though that doesn’t exactly help. She’s beautiful, sure, but it’s the way she carries herself—like she’s the calm center of whatever chaos surrounds her. The warmth in her voice when she says goodbye to the old lady makes my chest ache, and I don’t know what to do with that.

I tell myself I should walk away, let her finish cleaning up and leave without noticing me. That’d be the smart move. But before I can think too much about it, I’m stepping forward, cutting through the room until I’m right in front of her.

She looks up when I’m close enough that there’s no mistaking my intent, her dark eyes widening slightly, like she’s surprised but not afraid. I catch the quick flicker of her gaze over me—just for a second—before she forces herself to meet my eyes.

“You’re leaving?” My voice is rougher than I mean for it to be, and I don’t bother softening it.

Magnolia glances at the plates in her hands, then back up at me. “Just cleaning up first,” she says. There’s a small hitch in her voice, not nervous exactly, but like she’s trying to figure out where this is going. She sets the plates onto the stack at the end of the table, her movements slower than usual, like she’s stalling. “I guess I should head out soon, though. It’s getting late.”

I let her words hang between us, and for once, I don’t overthink it. “Can I walk you home?” I ask. The question is out before I can take it back, and I don’t want to. I try to cover for it with a smirk, saying, “I mean…you did ask me out, after all.”

That flusters her. She blinks, her lips parting slightly like she wasn’t expecting that. “Oh,” she says, her voice soft, like she’s not sure how to answer. “You don’t have to?—”

“I want to.” I cut her off before she can find a polite way to say no. My voice dips lower, but there’s no hesitation in it. “If that’s okay.”

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