Page 28 of Tempted By the Alpha Outlaw

But it doesn’t work. My focus fractures with every turn of the screwdriver, my thoughts snagging on her like a burr. I can’t stop seeing the way she looked up at me, her lashes low, her lips parting slightly like she was daring me to close the distance. The softness in her voice when she said my name wasn’t just shy—it was raw, unguarded, like she didn’t even realize the effect she had on me.

And her scent—sweet and warm, vanilla and wildflowers—wrapped around me like it was trying to stake a claim. Even now, I can smell it on my skin, faint but potent enough to drive me insane. It’s not just how she smells; it’s the way it makes my body react without permission. My blood runs hotter, my wolf pacing beneath the surface, claws scraping against the edges of my control.

I keep replaying the moment when she leaned in, just enough that I felt her breath against my skin. It would’ve been so easy to close that space, to brush my lips against hers and taste her. God, I want to know what she tastes like—if her lips are as soft as they look, if she’d let out that little catch in her breath again, the one that made my stomach tighten like a coiled spring.

It’s not just physical, though that’s part of it—hell, it’s a big part of it. But there’s something about the way she looks at me, like she’s seeing past the mess of who I am to the parts I don’t even like to admit are there. She doesn’t flinch, doesn’t shy away, even when she should.

And that makes me want her even more. Makes me want to pull her close, let her hands press against my chest, feel her fingers grip my shirt. Makes me want to see her eyes flutter shut as I drag my mouth down her throat, hear the sounds she’d make when she can’t hold back anymore.

My grip tightens on the screwdriver, and I force myself to focus on the damn projector, but it’s useless. My wolf is clawing at me, demanding I turn around, walk back to her house, and claim her—make her mine in every sense of the word. The thought burns through me, bright and impossible to extinguish.

I curse under my breath, forcing my focus back on the wires tangled inside the projector. “You’re losing it, Morgan,” I mutter. “She’s not for you. None of this is for you.”

The words sound hollow, even to me. Magnolia Jones is under my skin, and there’s no wrench, no tool in this damn workshop, that’s going to fix it.

By the time the projector’s insides are somewhat organized, my nerves are still shot. I shove the screwdriver aside, rubbing a hand down my face as I glance toward the office.

Inside…the hidden closet. A pile of junk.

The signal beacon underneath, tucked away in case anyone–like Frankie–wants to toss the workshop.

I should ignore it. I should let it sit there and collect dust, pretend it doesn’t exist. I’ve been offered a place here, at least for now, and maybe that offer is real.

But the Gulf Pack’s offer is a weight pressing on my shoulders, and I know I can’t put it off forever.

With a sigh, I push off the bench and make my way to the closet. I open the door and move a few boxes and supplies aside, finding the beacon on, its faint blue light pulsing steadily, like it’s been waiting for me.

“Alright,” I mutter, flipping the switch to activate the interface. The screen flickers to life, and I brace myself for what I know is coming.

There it is: a message from Ephraim, the Prime’s son…Peaches’ brother.

Status update requested. Have you located the target? Please send coordinates and await instructions.

I stare at the message, my fingers hovering over the keypad. I could respond right now, tell them I’ve found her, that she’s here. Realistically, I understand another bounty hunter will shop up eventually. The temptation is too great.

But they’re expecting me to deliver Peaches—Esther—like she’s a package, like her freedom doesn’t matter, like her life isn’t worth anything more than the bounty they’ve slapped on her. And a week ago, maybe I’d have done it. A quick in and out, then I’d throw Peaches over the back of my bike and get the hell out of here, taking more than a few gallons of gasoline with me.

Not anymore.

Instead, I toss the boxes over the beacon again, the screen going dark as the sound echoes through the empty workshop. My chest is tight, my wolf pacing and restless, and I can’t tell if it’s because of the message or because of the scent still lingering on my clothes—vanilla and wildflowers, sweet and impossible to forget.

I sink into the chair by the workbench, the weight of everything pressing down on me. Peaches’ story, Frankie’s warning, Magnolia’s warmth…none of it fits the picture I’d painted of this place before I arrived. I figured the Gulf Pack’s girl would have run off and found herself in another bad situation. It’s tough for omegas out there.

But she’s safe. I mean…fuck, this is paradise.

I don’t belong here. I’ve known that since the moment I rolled into the Austin Den. This place isn’t for guys like me—guys who take what isn’t theirs, who leave a trail of wreckage behind them without a second thought. But for some reason, Magnolia doesn’t seem to care about any of that. She looks at me like I’m worth something. Like she sees something in me that even I can’t find.

And that’s the most dangerous part of all.

I glance at the hidden beacon again, the boxes piled on top of it like that’s enough to keep the Gulf Pack at bay. Like they won’t send someone else if I don’t respond. They’ll come eventually—someone will. And that could make it worse. If they come, they could finger me as a scapegoat, a liar…and even worse, they could take Magnolia, too.

I can’t imagine her in a place like that. I won’t have it.

Which is exactly why I don’t think I can bring myself to condemn Peaches to that fate.

I push myself out of the chair, pacing the length of the workshop like that’s going to help. Like movement will somehow burn off the energy thrumming under my skin. But it doesn’t. Nothing does. The space feels too small, too suffocating, the weight of my choices pressing down on me with every step I take.

I stop in front of the projector again, staring down at it like it’s going to give me the answers I’m looking for. But all it does is sit there, silent and unhelpful, its metal casing glinting dully under the light.

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