Page 93 of Taken By the Alpha Priest

“Teach me the words?” Charlotte whispers from somewhere behind him. Her voice is soft, hesitant, like she’s stepping into a sacred place she doesn’t belong but can’t stay away from.

I hear Mateo shuffle slightly, then his murmured reply. “Santa María, Madre de Dios…”

“…ruega por nosotros,” Charlotte echoes, her voice gaining strength. She steps closer, her hand finding my knee and squeezing gently. “…los pecadores, ahora y en la hora de nuestra muerte.”

“Amen,” they finish together.

The room feels heavy with the weight of their prayers, their voices twining together like lifelines pulling me back from the abyss. But the fire in my chest rages on, each labored breath a battle I’m losing. My head pounds in time with my heart, weak and irregular, the rhythm a distant drumbeat of something inevitable.

The ride was too long. Too hard. I pushed myself too far, and now…

Now I’m slipping away.

The scent of blackberries and leather washes over me, cutting through the haze like a beacon. It’s her. Even now, she finds a way to pull me back.

Tilda.

Live.

The word echoes in my mind, not in my voice but hers, clear and strong and commanding.

LIVE.

I latch onto it, dragging myself toward it. My breath rattles in my throat, but I fight to keep it steady. I can heal if I push through this moment of crisis. My body is made to survive. I’ve been through worse. All I have to do is make it through this.

All I have to do is live.

Charlotte’s hand tightens on my knee, and Mateo’s prayer turns to something quieter, his voice dropping into a low, soothing murmur.

I cling to their voices, their presence, the memory of Tilda. She isn’t here, but her scent lingers in my mind. If I can hold on, I’ll find her again. I’ll see her face. I’ll feel her bite, her kiss, her warmth.

Live.

I take one more ragged breath, and then another. My heart stumbles, but it keeps going. I’m still here. For now.

* * *

The first thingI register upon fully waking is the sense of deep, all-consuming wrongness in the den.

I feel adrift…weak. And more than anything else, wrong. There’s something missing here, something at the core of who I am.

Tilda.

My eyes snap open and I’ve nearly gotten out of my bed before I’m pushed back down. It takes me a moment to realize that I’m not even in my bed, though; I’m in the clinic, an IV connected to the crook of my arm, my chest swathed in bandages. I try to suppress the rising panic that threatens to swallow me whole, finding a familiar gaze in the low light of the room.

Charlotte is sitting next to me, Elijah at her shoulder. Her brown eyes are wide with concern, her face flushed from pushing me back. Elijah looks ruffled himself—they must have both been fighting to keep me from hurting myself.

“You’re…how did I get here?” I ask.

I can barely remember anything from the past two days. Last I knew, Tilda and I were saddling up the horses to head out to Homestead, and then…

It comes back in a rush that leaves me breathless. The approach to Homestead’s walls, the shooting, my wolves coming to rescue me despite my insistence that they stay home.

Elijah dragging me away from danger…away from my mate.

“You were shot,” Charlotte says quietly. Her eyes are filled with tears, ringed red from what must have been hours of crying. “You’re not quite healed up yet. Please stay in bed.”

“I…” I pause, clutching my forehead. It aches like a motherfucker, probably a mixture of pain medication and blood loss. I look at Elijah with a grimace. “You disobeyed me.”

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