Page 34 of Taken By the Alpha Priest

Reyes is there every day too. He works alongside us without complaint, his shirt discarded by mid-morning, his tan skin glistening in the sun. At first, I expect him to throw his weight around, to bark orders or question my plans. But he doesn’t.

Not once.

In fact, he keeps his distance from me. He doesn’t talk to me, doesn’t hover, doesn’t do anything that could remotely be construed as invasive. He just…works. Obediently, quietly, following my instructions without argument. It’s almost unsettling how seamlessly he integrates himself into the rhythm of the work.

For such a big, bad wolf, he’s surprisingly compliant.

Despite my better judgment, I start to find myself drawn to him. Not in alet’s be friendskind of way—no, it’s something much more primal, something I can’t entirely control.

It’s his scent.

That heady, intoxicating mixture of red wine and incense wraps around me like a warm blanket, especially in the heat of the afternoon when the air grows thick and heavy. His natural musk blends into it, earthy and powerful, and it’s so potent I catch myself leaning closer without realizing it.

It’s maddening.

Sometimes I think I could fall asleep drowning in that scent, letting it lull me into some kind of trance where the work doesn’t matter and my aching muscles don’t exist. But I can’t let that happen. Iwon’t.

Still, when he moves near me to grab a tool or haul a sack of fertilizer, I have to remind myself to breathe.

It’s been four days of this strange, silent dance, and I don’t know how much longer I can keep pretending I don’t notice him—or worse, pretending I don’t care.

The sun sets on a Saturday night, painting the Texas sky in rich jewel tones. Grapefruit-pink clouds drift over a royal purple backdrop, bolts of warm lightning flashing in the thunderheads of a distant storm froom the west, where the Celestial Curtain still looms. The rumble comes slowly across the hill country, a low, resonant growl that settles deep in my bones.

The sky…it’s such a gorgeous, natural color. I never realized how much I missed seeing it like this, unfiltered by the Celestial Curtain.

Charlotte is playing the fiddle on the other side of the porch, a slow song that seems to be putting the rest of us to sleep. Peaches is lying on her back on the porch, a flannel shirt draped over her face to keep out the light as her chest slowly rises and falls. Charlotte’s mate is leaning against a porch railing, sipping from a mason jar with worship in his eyes. Grant is chatting with a couple other people over by the visitor center, discussing the weather.

It strikes me as perfectly ordinary.

And I realize this is bad…because I’m getting comfortable here.

Sleeping on Peaches’ sofa. Working from sunup to sundown. Getting to know Charlotte and the pack, realizing they’re just people. Spending every evening on the front porch of the visitor center, listening to Charlotte play her fiddle as the day winds down.

It’s disarming, how quickly this has become routine.

I can’t believe I came here to hurt them.

It’s only been a week, but my time here has warped everything I thought I knew about lycanthropes and the Heavenly Host. I used to think the Angels came to protect us, that the lycans needed their guidance to keep themselves safe. Then I started to distrust the divinity of the Angels…but I still figured they wanted to protect us.

But this place—this pack—it’s heavenly in its own way.

And there are children here. Happy, free children. They don’t live with the threat of a Blessing hanging over their head–the threat that the Angels might choose them to join their armies of cyborgs, take them far away.

We never had that in Homestead.

Was I even happy all this time? Is Enid happy?

“How about a drink?”

Reyes’ voice pulls me from my thoughts, and I glance up to find him standing over me, his broad shoulders blocking out the last sliver of sunlight. He holds out a mason jar, condensation dripping down its sides.

I take it, relishing the cool glass against my sore, blistered palm. “What is it?”

“Moonshine,” he says with a snort. “We don’t get much else around here, and I’ve learned not to ask too many questions.”

I hazard a sip, bracing for a fiery burn, but it’s smoother than I expected. “Not bad.”

“Be careful,” he chuckles. “That’s how it gets you.”

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