Page 33 of Puck Your Charity

"You tried to use a Command on me." Dark, venomous rage shakes her voice.

Standing frozen on the asphalt, my jaw locks tight. Offering a defense feels impossible when the fractured sound of my voice rings in my ears.

"You think you can bark a magic order and override my brain." Leaning toward the gap in the window, her eyes burn through my arrogant facade. "You think forcing me to listen works better than showing basic human empathy and asking for my trust."

The words hit like a slapshot to the ribs. Every syllable bruises.

"I tried to help you." Gritting the excuse out sounds weak and hollow. "Hiding in a sketchy lot paints a target on your back. You need your Alphas."

"I need a safe place!" Her shout echoes across the empty pavement, bouncing against the brick walls of the abandoned strip mall. "I need my job back! I need the life your entitled pack destroyed! You offer nothing but control and demands."

Gripping the steering wheel turns her knuckles white against the dark plastic.

"You want me to submit?" Absolute disgust drips from her tone. "Why would I ever submit to a hateful, entitled prick like you?"

A flinch escapes me. The insult slices into my chest, bypassing the anger and hitting a raw nerve.

"You act like a tough Alpha." A sneer curls her lips through the gap in the glass. "But you lacked the spine to stand in a room with a sick child for five minutes without making the moment about yourself. Complaining about the smell and your precious free time makes you a coward. You ran and left a ten-year-old boy wondering what he did wrong."

The accusation guts my remaining pride. She twists the knife into my deepest, darkest wound. Pink walls and sterile tubes flash behind my eyes. The suffocating terror of losing Loren steals the breath from my lungs. The hospital room felt like a graveyard.

Opening my mouth, the urge to explain burns on my tongue. Telling her about the trauma feels like a lifeline. Explaining the panic attack and the suffocating grief that drove me from that pediatric ward might earn a shred of understanding.

But my teeth snap shut. Using a dead sister as a shield to excuse toxic behavior crosses a line. Acting like a prick in that hallway and treating Sam like a burden warrants no sympathy. I deserve every ounce of the hatred shining in her eyes.

Olive glares through the glass for one more second. The window seals tight with a quiet click. Throwing the gearshift into drive, her foot slams on the gas pedal.

The sedan lurches into motion. Tires squeal against the cracked asphalt, leaving a trail of dark rubber in their wake. She speeds from the deserted strip mall lot and disappears into the afternoon traffic.

The silence of the empty lot feels loud in the crisp air. My hands drop to my sides. The anger that fueled my drive across town fades, leaving me feeling sick and hollow.

I stare at the empty parking space. The reality sets in. My temper ruins everything. I use rage to punish everyone else for my own shit. I use arrogance to hide the mess in my head. Acting like a hostile prick soured her at the hospital. Trying to control her drove her from the parking lot. I gave her every reason to run.

But a new, desperate truth settles in my chest. I want her in my life. I want that fierce, unapologetic woman standing next to me. Winning her back means making a hard choice right here on theasphalt. I have to drop my toxic armor. I have to change, or I lose my Omega before I even learn her favorite color.

My hand reaches into my pocket and pulls my phone. I open the internet browser. I stare at the search bar and type the words.

Therapists specializing in anger management and trauma near me.

I hit search. A list of local clinics and private practices pops onto the screen. I tap the top link for a trauma specialist. I click the contact button and fill the new patient intake form standing on the cold asphalt. I type my name, add my phone number, and hit submit.

I lock the screen and walk to my car. Sliding into the driver's seat, I grip the steering wheel. Fixing the mess inside my head takes work. Earning her forgiveness requires a better man than the one sitting in this car.

Chapter 11

Iwake up shivering. My spine aches from sleeping with the seat tilted back. The cheap fleece blanket covering my legs offers no protection against the March temperatures. The cold bites through my denim jeans and the oversized gray sweater.

My breath puffs like white smoke.

I sit up and rub the stiff muscles in my neck. Every joint in my body screams in protest. The cramped space leaves no room to stretch my legs.

My stomach twists with a vicious, demanding cramp. I ignore the hunger. Wasting money on breakfast ranks low on my priority list.

I grab my phone off the dashboard holder. The screen glows in the dark. Four in the morning.

I survived my first night as a homeless stray, but the cold proves this setup lacks long-term viability. I need a place to stretch out, somewhere warm.

An idea sparks in my tired brain.