Page 37 of Taken By the Alpha Priest

The mornings are quiet, the kind of stillness that must be sacred. We gather in the outdoor chapel and I stand at the music stand to read my homily, where the sun filters through the live oaks and paints everything in gold. Some people come with their breakfast in hand, some with crafts for their kids. The preschool teacher, Magnolia, always makes sure to have supplies on hand.

Elijah sits in the back, his legs sprawled out, always with that irreverent smirk like he’s daring me to say something that’ll convince him. Suyin meditates off to the side, her hands resting lightly on her knees. Grant usually arrives late, claiming “divine intervention” made him miss the start–but he’s there.

I try not to preach. Grant gives me enough grief as it is.

It’s not about faith for most of them—it’s about marking time. A moment to share what we’ve found, what we’ve lost, and what we’re fighting for.

And for me, it’s a chance to remind myself that even in this chaos, there’s still something holy about coming together.

This week, though, I’m struggling…because I’ve changed.

Tilda’s presence has changed me.

I shouldn’t think about her this way. Every time her scent reaches me—blackberries, so delicious my mouth waters even at the thought of her—it feels like a betrayal of everything I swore to uphold. I remember the last homily I gave in San Antonio, weeks before the Convergence. Standing at the pulpit, the congregation murmuring the Lord’s Prayer in unison. The peace I felt then, the certainty in my purpose—it’s a distant memory now, blurred by blood and war.

And then there’s Tilda. She’s fire and thorns and raw earth, and I’m drawn to her in ways I can’t explain. My wolf calls her mine, insistent and primal, a voice I can’t seem to silence.

It’s wrong. But it feels inevitable, powerful, like something outside myself.

What if that’s God talking? What’s more divine than the feeling ofrightnessone feels with the person they were destined for?

And then…there’s the earth, the farm. The soil between my fingers, underneath my nails, the seedlings sprouting green against the gray of our lives—Tilda has brought that back into focus too. She’s a symbol of life, fertility, renewal.

My wolf, of course, is convinced she’s my mate. That claim roars louder every day, insistent and primal. That breeding her would be the truest form of devotion, a way to serve both her and God.

The wolf is wrong.

But still.

By the time Saturday night rolls around, I’ve made no progress. The words won’t come, and the blank page stares back at me like a judgment. I don’t know what being a priest even means anymore, not when my vow of celibacy feels as fragile as dried leaves in the face of Tilda’s presence.

A knock at the door interrupts my spiral, and I take it as a sign to stay the course.

“Come in,” I say, immediately catching the harshness of my tone.

The door creaks open, and Elijah steps inside, his cautious grin like a peace offering.

“Hey,tío,” he says.

“I wish you wouldn’t call me that,” I mutter.

“Alright then—Father Garza?”

I groan. “Reyes is fine. You’re marrying my niece, after all.”

“Thus thetío,” he says, smirking. “But fine. Reyes. I actually wanted to ask you something.”

“Go on.”

He leans against the wall, arms crossed. Always guarded, this one. I think he’s still waiting for the other shoe to drop—for someone to rescind his place here because of his past as a crusader.

“Well,” he starts, “I already talked to Charlotte’s grandparents, but since you’re the closest thing she has to a dad, I figured I should ask for your blessing.”

I stiffen at the word “blessing,” the familiar sting of it prickling under my skin. It’s a word the Angels twisted into something cruel, a mockery of grace.

“You want my blessing,” I say, the words coming out sharper than I intended.

Elijah doesn’t flinch. “I do,” he says simply.

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