Page 32 of Puck Your Charity

"I refuse to stand around and wait." I grip the door handle, looking back at my packmates. I tone down the bite in my voice, knowing they share my panic. "Coaxing failed. Pleading failed. An unbonded Omega crying in a dark parking lot needs help. She needs someone to step up and bring her somewhere safe. Let me handle this."

I step out into the hallway and stomp to the garage. The door slams shut behind me.

I hit the button on my key fob. The headlights of my sleek black sports car flash in the dim light. I slide into the driver'sseat and grip the leather steering wheel. The engine roars to life with a deafening growl.

I throw the car into reverse and back out of the garage.

My jaw clenches until my teeth ache. I plan to pull up to her car, open her door, and get her into my passenger seat. She can yell and scream all she wants. I will endure her hatred to guarantee she makes it back to the safety of our guest wing.

Hitting the open road, I press my foot against the gas pedal. The speedometer climbs. I weave through the afternoon traffic with reckless precision. My blood burns with the frantic need to reach her before a real threat does.

She wants to act stubborn and sit in a dark parking lot, risking her life to avoid us. I refuse to let her become a victim of her own pride. I plan to get her out of danger, even if she hates me for helping her.

Weeds grow through the cracks of the deserted strip mall lot. My sleek greenAston Martincreeps past faded storefront signs, tires crunching over loose gravel. The abandoned grocery store on the corner casts long shadows over the pavement. Her beat-up sedan sits parked under a busted streetlight near the back.

Hitting the brake pedal makes the tires squeal against the grit. Leaving a few feet of space between my door and hers gives her a clear path to back out. Throwing the gearshift into park cuts the engine. The silence of the empty lot feels oppressive.

A crisp March breeze hits my face the second the door swings open. The lingering winter chill rises off the cold blacktop, biting through my thin shirt. Crossing the narrow strip of asphalt between our cars takes two strides. Smudges and dust coat her driver's side window. The tinted glass fails to hide the misery inside.

Olive huddles behind the steering wheel. A death grip on the worn plastic turns her knuckles bone white. Fresh tears leave blotchy stains across her cheeks. Ragged gasps shake her chest.The sight of her crying twists a painful knot in my gut. A protective instinct flares, demanding blood from whoever made her cry. But the harsh truth stings worse. We caused those tears.

A faint trace of her scent leaks through the car vents. Crushed cinnamon and distressed apple pie hit my nose like a match to dry kindling. Arousal twitches inside my jeans, thickening with an instinctual urge. The desire to comfort her clashes with a desperate need to claim her. Losing control frustrates my structured mind. Seeing her tears makes my chest ache, so anger steps in to bury the vulnerability. Rage feels safer than fear.

My knuckles rap against the glass. The loud thud makes her jump in the driver's seat. Her head snaps sideways, brown eyes wide with panic. The terror in her gaze feels like a punch to the jaw.

"Roll the window down. Just crack it." Gesturing to the glass feels pointless when she shrinks back against her seat.

"Olive." Raising my voice ensures the sound penetrates the glass. "You’re alone in a sketchy parking lot. The sun goes down in a few hours. That makes you a target for any unbonded Alpha roaming the streets. Just roll the window down so we can talk."

"Go away!" Her hoarse shout vibrates through the closed window. "Leave me alone! I don't want you here!"

Resting my hands on the roof of her sedan, my face drops level with the glass. The chilled metal of her car bites into my palms.

"You're acting like a stubborn idiot." Frustration boils over, sharpening my glare. "Running from the people offering safety puts your life at risk to prove some stupid point about independence. Refusing our help makes no sense. I refuse to leave you out here alone."

"I would rather sleep in my car than talk to you!" A furious snarl twists her mouth.

The stubborn defiance grates on my nerves. Boiling anger consumes my patience and blinds my common sense. She needsto listen. Dropping those walls and cracking the window remains the best way to help her. Frustration pushes me to try an Alpha Command.

A Command requires immense focus. The sound bypasses an Omega's rational brain and compels them to obey, forcing submission through sheer instinct. Drawing a deep breath, projecting authority requires an unyielding foundation. Alphas need confidence to project a command.

A deep ocean of self-hatred rots my core. Using rage to mask my paralyzing fear of loss works most days. But the memory of a flatlining heart monitor still haunts my every move, stripping away the confidence. The truth hurts. A broken mess pretending to be a king has no business barking orders. Desperation overrides logic. My mouth opens.

"Roll down the window."

The Command misfires.

The sound leaves my throat lacking the deep, vibrating resonance of true authority. The frequency cracks and splinters in the crisp air. A fractured, weak tone carries the desperate pitch of a terrified man instead of the booming demand of an Alpha.

The order hits the glass and falls flat. It fails to compel her or trigger a single submissive instinct in her brain.

Olive blinks. The panic in her brown eyes fades, replaced by a stunning realization of my pathetic attempt.

My hands slip off the roof of her car. Stumbling backward, humiliation burns the back of my throat. The failure hangs in the air between us like a flashing neon sign.

Olive stares through the smudged glass. Fear vanishes from her brown eyes, replaced by a blazing, unyielding fury. The tears stop falling.

The window lowers three inches. The gap offers a clear path for her voice while a flood of distressed, sour apple pie scent hits my lungs.