Page 43 of Taken By the Alpha Priest

Elijah clears his throat, standing next. “Charlotte and I are still looking for a couple of people to help finish up the cabin repairs before winter. Let me know if you’re free to swing a hammer.”

As more announcements are made, I steal a glance at Tilda. She’s fidgeting with her hands, her gaze darting between the speakers and the ground.

When the announcements wind down, I step back up to the pulpit. “Thanks, everyone. Let’s keep showing up for each other, yeah? You’re dismissed.”

The pack begins to scatter, voices rising as conversations pick up. But Tilda stays seated, her green eyes still trained on me.

And for the first time, I wonder if I’m ready for what comes next.

Breakfast, held just after the Sunday meeting, is wrought with tension. Tilda sits at a different table, her back rigid, shoulders squared. She doesn’t look at me once, but I can feel her thoughts as clearly as if she’d shouted them across the room.

I didn’t write that homily for her–or at least, I didn’t think that’s what I was doing at the time–but I can see now how she might’ve taken it. She’s too smart not to start piecing it together.

She’s more than just someone I saved in a moment of weakness. She’s my mate.

And if she’s figured it out, then she knows what I haven’t told her yet: fate brought us together. The same fate that brought Charlotte and Elijah together. It’s undeniable, like a drumbeat in my chest every time I’m near her.

But that doesn’t mean I can act on it.

The full moon is looming closer every day. Tilda has to be gone by then. If she isn’t, I won’t be able to resist her when the wolf takes control.

As the others finish eating and begin clearing out, I keep my eyes on her. She lingers by the kitchen threshold, her back to me. I think she’s talking to Peaches and Mateo while they clean up, but her glances over her shoulder say otherwise. She knows I’m watching. She’s waiting for me to approach.

It’s time to tell her the truth.

I rise, dreading how this is going to go. Tilda catches my movement, says her goodbyes to the others, and meets me halfway through the visitor center.

“Can we talk?” she asks, crossing her arms over her chest. The movement pulls the fabric of her green sundress taut, highlighting the curve of her waist, the way the sunlight catches on her freckled skin. That scar winds over her thigh like a red ribbon, and all I can think about is tracing it with my lips, learning every story it holds.

“Of course,” I manage. “Walk?”

She nods, and we step out onto the porch. The late August sun bakes the air, the kind of dry, relentless heat that makes you lazy and irresponsible. We take the stairs down into the grass, passing the garden plot where seedlings push their way toward the light, determined and fragile.

It’s a quiet reminder of what she’s already brought to the den: life, hope, possibility.

I glance at her. She looks beautiful here, in this unfiltered sunlight, her hair glinting like polished oak and copper under the Texas sky.

“It was a nice speech,” she says quietly. “I’m surprised they didn’t want you for the wedding.”

“Not a lot of religious folks around here,” I reply. “I try to keep it light, but they wanted their friend to do it.”

“And Charlotte said you’re walking her down the aisle?”

“Yes.” I smile, though it’s tinged with a sharp ache. “It shouldn’t be me, but I’m honored.”

“She’s lucky to have you, even if it’s only been for a short time,” Tilda says. Her voice softens, and I feel the weight of her words settle in my chest.

We walk in silence for a while, the quiet filled with the rustle of the wind through the grass and the distant hum of cicadas. Limestone cliffs taper away from the den, rising up and providing a protective barrier around the property–around us.

“That’s not what you wanted to talk about,” I murmur.

She stops beside a tree, leaning against the trunk. The sun filters through the live oak’s branches, painting her face in gold and shadow. A mockingbird sings overhead, its melody sharp and clear.

“No,” she says. Her fingers fidget with the hem of her dress, twisting the fabric. “It’s not.”

She doesn’t look at me, but I can feel the weight of her question before she speaks.

“I’m her, aren’t I?”

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