Page 3 of Tempted By the Alpha Outlaw

But I don't take the time to revel in my own snark…because the Austin Den takes me by surprise.

Whereas the landscape outside was as rough as anywhere else in the apocalypse, it's actually nice here. It looks downright domestic–missing only white picket fences. Off to my right, a little clump of houses sits pert and perfect, more cabins in the process of being built around them.

And in the grass between those houses…kids. Little wolves, even a pup who looks like he just learned how to shift.

“Huh,” I murmur from where I walk beside my bike. “Y'all have a lot of families here.”

“It's our best kept secret,” Tilda says over her shoulder. “We make people feel safe. And when people feel safe…well, the ones who want ‘em have babies. Reyes made sure folks were secure enough to make that happen.”

As we walk, the scent of wildflowers and honey grows stronger, almost overwhelming me. It makes me…no, hungry isn’t the word for it. I would say horny, but that would be pretty damn strange. Nothing about this should be making me horny; domestic bliss has never exactly been a fantasy of mine.

And yet, here I am, wanting to inject that scent into my veins.

I glance around, seeing a group of older kids tossing a battered frisbee back and forth. A small boy shifts mid-run, stumbling on tiny paws before a teenager—a beta, if my nose is right—catches him and sets him back on his feet. The pup yips, wagging his stubby tail before taking off again.

Safe. They look safe.

It shouldn’t bother me, but it does—because there’s danger in the den, and I’m it, and they haveno idea. I shove the thought aside, focusing instead on Reyes as he leads me toward a cluster of larger buildings.

“We’re trying to build something lasting here,” Reyes says. “It’s not just about survival—it’s about living. Thriving.”

Tilda glances back at me. “It’s a hell of a lot harder than it looks.”

“I’m sure,” I reply. I don’t know what to do with this place yet. It feels too polished, too put together. Too…good. Places like this don’t survive long, not in a world where everything’s built on the bones of the past.

“You’ll be working out of the workshop,” Reyes says, pointing to a squat, sturdy building with a tin roof that gleams in the setting sun. “We’ve got a few vehicles that need attention. Generators too. You’ll stay in the back office—it’s not much, but it’s private.”

“Sounds perfect,” I say, meaning it. Privacy is a luxury I don’t take for granted.

“Good,” Tilda says. “Just don’t give Frankie too much trouble. She’s protective of this place.”

I smirk, the memory of her scowl still fresh. “Protective is one way to put it.”

Reyes chuckles. “She’s loyal to a fault, but she’ll come around. Eventually.”

I nod, though I don’t expect Frankie to soften anytime soon. Wolves like her don’t trust easily, and I can’t blame her. I’ve been on the wrong side of trust too many times myself.

Reyes pushes the workshop door open, and the scent of oil and metal greets me like an old friend. The space is cluttered but functional, tools hanging from the walls and workbenches scattered with half-finished projects. A hulking old truck sits in the center, its hood propped open like a patient on an operating table.

“Make yourself useful here, and you’ll earn your place,” Reyes says.

“Got it,” I reply, stepping inside. My fingers itch to get to work, to lose myself in the familiar rhythm of grease and gears. It’s been a while since I’ve had a real space to work in.

Reyes claps me on the shoulder, a gesture that’s surprisingly warm. “Dinner’s in an hour, in the main hall. Join us if you want to meet the rest of the pack.”

“Appreciate it,” I say, meaning it. But as Reyes and Tilda head back toward the heart of the den, I don’t follow right away.

Instead, I take a moment to lean against the workbench, letting the quiet settle over me. My gaze drifts to the open door, to the laughter of children and the golden light filtering through the trees.

This place…it’s dangerous. Not because of its walls or its guards, but because of what it represents.

Belonging.

I push the thought away and turn to the truck, rolling up my sleeves. Better to keep my hands busy than let my mind wander.

Because the truth is, I don’t belong here. Not really.

And if these people knew why I’d come, they’d make damn sure I never did.

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