Page 52 of Taken By the Alpha Priest

Instead, I stick to Peaches and Suyin. If there’s a task that needs a second pair of hands, I call for them. If Tilda has a question, I let them answer. It’s not exactly subtle, but no one calls me out on it—not even Tilda, who seems content to ignore me right back.

It’s safer this way. For both of us.

Still, she’s impossible to avoid completely. Every now and then, I catch a flash of her—her dark hair gleaming in the sunlight, the way her tank top clings to her back as she works, the flash of green in her eyes when she glances my way. Each glimpse is a fresh ache, a reminder of the one thing I can’t have.

And then there’s her scent. Blackberries and leather, warm and wild, catching on the breeze and hitting me square in the chest. It’s enough to drive me mad.

I keep my focus on the dirt. On the garden. On the work. It’s the only way to stop myself from crossing the distance between us, from giving in to the pull that’s already so dangerously strong.

Because if I let myself fall into her orbit, I don’t think I’ll be able to pull myself out.

She’s temptation incarnate, and I can’t risk slipping up.

By the time Charlotte’s wedding rolls around, Tilda has somehow wormed her way into the fabric of the pack. She spends evenings in the common room with the others, laughing over old board games and swapping stories. She picks up shifts in the kitchen, works tirelessly in the garden, and even manages to charm Mateo into helping her with some farm repair project. Frankie still looks at her like she’s one wrong move away from a fight, but everyone else has settled into an uneasy truce. And evenFrankie, of all people, seems to have taken on a grudging respect for Tilda.

She’s making friends. Finding her place. Fitting in.

But she can’t stay.

The wedding is on the new moon, and that leaves just two weeks until the alphas go into rut and the omegas into heat. She has to leave by then. She has to.

Even if I’m starting to like her.

Even if everything in me screams to keep her here.

I remind myself of the plan. She finishes up the garden plot, we give her some of our small store of insulin…she goes home. Some of the pack think we should keep her as leverage, but I can’t stomach the idea. She’s not a prisoner. When she leaves, she’ll go as an equal.

Still, when Charlotte’s wedding day arrives, the weight of it all presses heavy on my chest.

Here too soon. She grew up without her family…and now she’s getting married.

I pour myself into the role of father of the bride, doing everything I can to make the day special. The handfasting rope Charlotte requested gets my full attention, as I wind golden thread and dried flowers around the coil, attaching my mother’s rosary for a final touch. Wedding coins—gathered from the pack and polished until they gleam—go into a wooden box Mateo and I painted in bright colors. It’s not the kind of extravagance we had in the old world, but it’s something.

It’s enough. It has to be enough.

By the time I step out of my room, the quiet hum of preparation has shifted into a celebratory mood all over the den. Mateo’s guitar echoes softly through the halls, guiding me toward the outdoor chapel. As I walk, I adjust my collar–no priest’s collar tonight, just a plain white shirt–trying to calm the nervous energy buzzing in my chest.

When I step outside, the world seems to hold its breath. The stars blaze against the deep navy sky, their brilliance unfiltered by pollution or the celestial curtain. The Milky Way sprawls overhead like a cosmic road, its beauty almost surreal. The scent of wildflowers drifts on the cool night air, mixing with the sound of laughter and soft voices from the chapel ahead.

For a moment, I forget everything else—the Convergence, the Heavenly Host, the burdens we’ve carried for years. In this small bubble of time, with music and light and life all around me, it feels like the world hasn’t ended after all. It feels like the beginning of something.

And then I catch her scent: blackberries and leather.

Tilda steps into view, and the world shifts.

She’s wearing a green dress that hugs her figure, her hair cascading in loose waves over her shoulders, a hint of gold brushed across her eyelids. It’s soft and feminine, so different from the rough-edged woman I’ve come to know—and yet, somehow, entirely her.

She’s stunning. Breathtaking.

I’m doomed.

“Hey, stranger,” she says, a sly smile tugging at her lips. Her voice is low, teasing, and it hits me like a punch to the gut. “You look nice–just for me?”

“Of course,” I say, grinning despite myself. “All for you.”

Her laugh is light, playful, and it tightens the knot in my chest. “Well, I’m flattered,” she says, stepping closer. “You gonna sit down?”

“I’m part of the wedding,” I murmur, my voice rougher than I intended.

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