Page 76 of Tempted By the Alpha Outlaw

And I have work to do.

The projector’s been sitting in the workshop, half-disassembled, for longer than I’d like to admit. Magnolia asked me to fix it weeks ago, and I promised I’d get to it. But promises mean a lot more now, and the weight of the pack’s trust feels heavier since I claimed Magnolia.

I spend the morning fiddling with the wiring, trying to make sense of the tangled mess left behind by whoever last attempted to fix it. My hands are steady, but my mind? It’s a goddamn disaster. Magnolia’s scent clings to me like a ghost, warm and sweet and impossible to ignore. It’s in the air around me, under my skin, twisting up every coherent thought I try to hold onto.

Every time I close my eyes, she’s there—her laugh, soft and breathless in the aftermath of my kiss. The way her lips parted on my name, the sound of it more addictive than any drug. The feel of her under my hands, warm and pliant, fitting against me like she was made for it, made for me.

I groan, dragging a hand down my face as if that’ll shake her loose from my thoughts. “Get it together, Colt,” I mutter, but even my voice feels hollow. She’s too much. Too vivid. Too goddamn beautiful. And no matter what I do, I can’t stop replaying last night. The way she let me in—body, mind, soul—without hesitation. Like she wasn’t terrified of the man she’d tied herself to. Like she didn’t see the cracks and shadows I’ve tried so hard to hide.

And damn it, I want to be worthy of that. Of her. But wanting and deserving are two different things, and I know better than to think I’m either.

The tangled wires in front of me blur as my mind drifts again, drawn back to the feel of her hands, small and warm, skimming over my chest as she whispered my name like a prayer. Her smile, sleepy and unguarded this morning, like I’d just handed her the whole damn world.

I grip the wrench harder, my knuckles whitening, and force my focus back to the task in front of me. But it’s no use. Magnolia’s everywhere. She’s in my blood, in the air I breathe, in the quiet moments between one heartbeat and the next.

Her words from last night echo through me, as soft and steady as the tide.You don’t have to carry everything alone, you know.She said it so simply, like it was a choice I could make. Like it wouldn’t shatter the fragile thing we’ve built between us.

And that’s the problem, isn’t it? I want to be the man she sees when she looks at me. I want to be worthy of her. But how can I give her that when I’m still hiding the worst parts of myself?

The wrench slips in my hand, the edge scraping against my palm, and I swear under my breath. Focus, Colt. She deserves someone better. Someone whole. Someone who doesn’t look at her and feel the kind of hunger that borders on madness.

But God, the way she looked at me last night. The way her fingers curled in my hair, pulling me closer like she couldn’t stand to let go. The way she said forever like it was a promise we could actually keep.

A low, guttural groan escapes me as I drop the wrench onto the table, scrubbing both hands over my face. I don’t know how to do this. How to balance the want—the need—to protect her with the fear that the truth will destroy her faith in me.

Because the truth is, I’ve never wanted anything the way I want her. Not just her body, though Christ, that’s enough to drive me to the edge on its own.

But her laugh.

Her kindness.

The way she fits into the hollow places inside me.

Magnolia is everything good I’ve ever wanted and everything I don’t deserve. And the cruelest part? She doesn’t even know it. Doesn’t see the jagged edges I’ve kept hidden. If she did…if she knew…would she still look at me the way she did last night? Would she still trust me to stay?

I shake my head, trying to clear the ache building in my chest, but the weight of her—of everything she is—refuses to let me go. I’m drowning in her, in the way she made me feel like I could be enough. Like I could be better.

The projector sparks under my fingers, and I curse, tossing the wrench onto the table. “Enough of this.”

I need to do something. Something that shows her—and everyone else—that I’m serious about this. About us.

Which is how I find myself standing on the porch of Bruce and Sarita’s house, my palms sweating like a damn teenager.

The door opens before I can knock. Bruce, Magnolia’s dad, is standing on the other side, his broad frame filling the doorway. His face breaks into a small, easy smile when he sees me. “Colt,” he says, his tone warm, and I feel a flicker of relief.

“Bruce.” I nod. “Is now a good time?”

“Course it is,” he says, stepping aside and gesturing me in. “Come on in, son.” His voice has a friendly, fatherly cadence to it, and it settles my nerves a bit.

I step into the house, the scent of coffee and freshly baked bread hitting me. Sarita is seated at the kitchen table, a mug of coffee in her hands. Unlike Bruce, her expression is sharp, her eyes narrowing as I approach.

Bruce moves toward the kitchen and grabs another mug from the counter. “Coffee?” he offers, already pouring some for me.

“Yes, sir,” I say, grateful for the gesture. “Thank you.”

Sarita doesn’t look up from her mug, her lips pressing into a thin line as I take a seat at the table. Bruce sets the coffee in front of me and leans casually against the counter, crossing his arms. He looks relaxed, but there’s a spark of curiosity in his eyes, like he’s sizing me up in a way that’s far less intimidating than his wife’s scrutiny.

“Morning, ma’am,” I say, directing my words to Sarita, my voice as even as I can manage. “I appreciate you both making time for me.”

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