Page 44 of Taken By the Alpha Priest

The air between us thickens, the unspoken answer hanging heavy. I glance out toward the perimeter fence, my gaze tracing the horizon as if it holds the answers I can’t bring myself to say.

I’ve fought the urge to tell her so many times, I’ve tried to keep us both safe…but there’s no point in denying it anymore. She already knows.

“You are,” I admit, my voice low.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see her lashes flutter, her lips pressed into a thin line. She pulls at a loose thread on her dress, and the sight of her vulnerability—a crack in her usual sharp edges—shreds what’s left of my defenses.

“What makes you think that?” she asks.

I look back at her, the sunlight catching the golden undertones of her hair, the freckles scattered across her nose. “Because I knew the moment I saw you that I was meant to meet you,” I say softly, my voice steadier than I feel. “It’s why I had to save you—and why I can’t stay away from you. Why you challenge me, fight me every step of the way, and somehow…it only makes me care for you more.”

Tilda exhales sharply, her arms wrapping around her torso like she’s trying to hold herself together. Her eyes flick away from mine, looking at anything but me—the tree bark behind her, the patches of grass, the distant cliffs—before finally landing back on me.

Her teeth catch her lower lip, and for a moment, she just stares at me. Her voice comes low, hesitant, almost too quiet to hear.

“I don’t believe in fate,” she says.

I tilt my head, watching the war she’s fighting within herself. “But you believe in God,” I counter, my tone soft, careful.

She shakes her head sharply, her lip trembling as she releases it from her teeth. “I believe angels came to Earth and proved God doesn’t matter anymore,” she snaps, louder now. Her eyes flash up to meet mine, and there’s fire there—pain, anger, grief all wrapped together. “This isn’t some fairy tale, Reyes. It’s a horror story. I killed your people; you killed mine. You were experimented on by beings I thought were saviors. How can you still believe in God after everything?”

Her words strike deep, the weight of them like a stone in my chest. I take a slow breath, stepping closer but keeping enough distance to give her space. “If God isn’t real—if fate isn’t real—then how do you explain this?” I ask quietly.

She stares at me, her brow furrowing, and I lift my hand slowly, deliberately—not toward her face, but toward her hand. I brush her fingertips with my palm, the barest contact, and it’s like a spark ignites between us. My skin buzzes with the warmth of hers, a jolt racing up my arm and settling in my chest.

She stiffens, her breath catching, and for a moment, I expect her to pull away. But she doesn’t. Her fingers shift, trembling, and then her palm presses fully against mine, tentative but there. Five days without touching her, and I feel like I’m finally breathing again.

Her voice comes shaky, a whisper laced with defiance. “It’s just biology,” she says. “Pheromones or—whatever it is you people do to manipulate someone like me.”

Her words should cut, but there’s no malice in them—only fear. I tighten my fingers around hers, gentle but unyielding, holding her gaze even as her breathing quickens. “It’s not biology, Tilda,” I murmur. “It’s us.”

She shakes her head again, the movement slower this time, her eyes closing as if she’s trying to block me out. “Why does it feel like this?” she whispers, almost to herself. “Like you’re in my head? Like…God, I can’t think straight when you’re near me.”

“Because it’s real,” I say, stepping closer. I can feel her breath now, shallow and uneven, mingling with mine in the air between us. “Whatever you call it—biology, instinct, fate—it’s real. I can feel it, Tilda. I know you can too.”

Her eyes snap open, locking onto mine, and they’re swimming with emotion—fear, confusion, and something deeper, something she’s trying desperately to hide but can’t. Her lips part, but no words come, only a shaky exhale that brushes against my skin.

Then she pulls me that much closer–and presses my hand to her hip, right over the mark I left on her. Even through the thin fabric, I can feel the ridges of the scar—proof of what I’ve done, of what we are.

And touching her over that mark is like…something seals shut, blocking off all exits. I didn’t intend on doing this today–Ican’tdo this. And yet, we’re stumbling toward the edge of a cliff, about to fall over together.

“What’s stopping you?” she whispers. Her voice is steady, rough–gaze boring into me. “You could tell me to do anything. You could have me if you wanted. If you said the word, I would take my clothes off right here and now and ride you like there’s no tomorrow.”

Lord preserve me. A growl escapes the back of my throat as my hand grasps her hip now, pulling her closer. The words are still coming out, still denying it…but my body is doing anything but.

“I wouldn’t do that,” I bite out, my voice strained.

She drags her gaze up to mine, her lips parting.

And the words she says next are what leave me undone. “What if I wanted you to?”

Temptation crashes over me, sharp and unrelenting. My wolf howls, clawing at the edges of my control, demanding I claim what’s mine. I made a promise—to God, to myself—and breaking it now would mean losing everything…but I’m already in too deep.

“I’m a priest, Tilda,” I murmur. My throat tightens as I force the words out; she’s so close now that I can feel her breath against my lips, taste blackberries. “If God put us in each other’s lives for a reason, this isn’t it. Maybe it’s to forge peace between our settlements, to–”

She steps closer, cutting me off. Her voice drops to a whisper, heavy with challenge.

“Reyes…” she says. “Tell me to kiss you.”

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