Page 95 of Tempted By the Alpha Outlaw

I’m the one who holds it together…who never, ever lets the world get her down.

I try to lose myself in chores, in fixing things that don’t really need fixing.

I scrub the counters until my fingers ache, sweep the floors twice, take the rugs out back and beat the dust out of them even though Mama just did it yesterday. I fold laundry that isn’t mine, stack dishes that no one asked me to clean, rearrange the books on the living room shelf just for the sake of doing something.

None of it helps.

The whispers still slip through the walls, and even when no one’s speaking, I can feel the weight of their judgment pressing down on me.

So I move to the porch, sit cross-legged on the wooden steps, and start fussing with a set of old wind chimes that have been hanging crooked for weeks. The metal tubes are rusted, the strings frayed, the whole thing barely clinging together.

It should be an easy fix.

But my hands won’t stop shaking.

I fumble with the knots, trying to thread the twine through a split in the wooden frame, but my fingers won’t cooperate. I pull too hard, the string snaps, and one of the chimes clatters to the porch floor with a ringing clang.

I suck in a breath, jaw clenching, my vision blurring with frustration.

It’s fine. I can fix it.

I can fix this.

I try again, threading a new piece of twine, but it knots too early, and when I yank it loose, another chime falls. The sound grates against my nerves, discordant. My breath comes faster, my chest too tight, my hands too clumsy, and I know it’s stupid, I know it’s just a set of wind chimes?—

But it’s not.

It’s everything.

And when the last knot refuses to budge, I let out a growl and smash the damn thing against the porch railing.

Metal clatters, wood cracks, and suddenly, the wind chimes are just a mess of broken parts in my lap, tangled and useless.

I press the heels of my hands to my eyes, biting back the sting of tears.

That’s when I hear her.

“Are you gonna mope all week, or are we gonna talk about it?”

Peaches is standing at the bottom of the porch steps, arms crossed, brows drawn.

She doesn’t sit right away. Just watches me.

Like she’s giving me a choice.

Like she already knows exactly what’s wrong, but she’s waiting to see if I’ll say it first.

I let out a slow breath, staring out at the sunset. “Not much to talk about.”

Peaches snorts, unimpressed. “Yeah? ‘Cause from what I hear, your mate’s locked up in a storage room, the whole den is split on whether or not to exile him, and you’re sittin’ here actin’ like none of it matters.”

I clench my jaw, gripping the broken wind chimes in my lap. “It doesn’t matter,” I lie, voice flat.

Peaches gives me a long, unimpressed look, then climbs the steps, easing down beside me. “That’s a damn lie.”

I don’t answer.

She watches me for a second longer, then reaches down and plucks a bent piece of metal from my lap, rolling it between her fingers. “You know,” she says casually, “when I first got here, I used to flinch every time someone touched me. Took me weeks to stop expecting the worst.”

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