Page 39 of Taken By the Alpha Priest

Elijah pockets the ring with care, his shoulders relaxing as if he’s found something he didn’t realize he was missing. “I’ll make sure she knows,” he says.

And for the first time in a long time, I feel like I’ve let go of something—like the weight I’ve carried for years has shifted, if only slightly.

When I look back at Elijah, he’s smiling, his gratitude plain. “I think this is the part where we hug, right?”

I chuckle. “Give it until the wedding. Then, maybe.”

When he leaves, I sit back at my desk, the weight of the day settling over me. My wolf stirs, restless and ever-present, making my skin feel too tight. I feel it in my shoulders, my chest—like I’m growing too big for this space, too big for the man I used to be.

The words come to me then.

I pick up my pen, the familiar weight of it steadying my hand, and start to write. At first, the words come slow, disjointed. But then they pour out in a rush, like water breaking through a dam.

I write about the things that endure—love, family, the land beneath our feet. About the cycles of growth and renewal, the hope that springs up even in the darkest places. I think about Manuel’s ring, about Charlotte and Elijah’s wedding, about the seedlings we planted together this week.

And through it all, I think about her.

Tilda, with her sharp tongue and restless spirit. The way she tilts her head when she’s thinking, or the faint smile she doesn’t realize she’s giving when she looks out at the sky.

By the time I set the pen down, the moon is high, the den quiet. I lean back in my chair, exhausted but strangely at peace.

I know the words I’ve written aren’t just for the pack.

They’re for her.

13

TILDA

I’ve got to get the fuck out of here.

My eyes snap open on Sunday morning with that as the only thought in my mind. I’m getting in too deep. I’m forming friendships with these people, getting attached, becoming invested in the success of their little garden plot. I may as well be sleeping with the enemy at this point, given how much I’m starting to think the pack isn’t all bad.

And, if I’m being honest with myself, Ikind ofwant to be sleeping with the enemy.

Reyes isn’t nearly as bad as I thought he was. Gentler, calmer, maybe even thoughtful in his own gruff way. It wasn’t the worst thing in the world, that first night with him. In fact, I’ve been dreaming about it.

Fragments come back to me at night, vivid and disjointed. Finding me in his wolf form, shifting, crouching over me and snarling at whoever tried to come close. His whispered words stand out:“Stay with me, stay with me…”

And then…arriving at the den, Suyin treating me, Reyes waiting. Crawling into bed with me afterward and holding me to his chest, lips barely brushing against my pulse. He kissed me–that much I remember–but it feels more like he was trying to snatch whatever time he could with me than transgress on my boundaries.

I’m still angry that he turned me. That part hasn’t gone away. But some irrational, messy part of me is…flattered?

I wonder if he’s dreaming about me too.

Peaches stirs in her bed across the room, pulling me out of my thoughts. Light slips under the door, and I know I won’t be able to lie here much longer without going completely stir-crazy. Sundays are the only day we take off, and she takes full advantage of it, groaning about early mornings every other day of the week. I don’t want to wake her, but I also don’t feel like going out alone.

Peaches rolls over and sinks deeper into her pillow. I could wait for her to wake up—but I really don’t want to.

It’ll just be a quick trip–no harm in stretching my legs. It’s not like this is a recon mission at this point.

I push the blanket off and put my feet on the floor. The gym shorts and tank top Peaches loaned me stick to my skin; it’s already sweltering, one of those last-gasp summer days that clings even underground. I’d kill for a window I could leave open to catch a breeze—back in Homestead, I always sleep with the windows open unless the weather’s horrendous.

The den is still and humid this morning, the kind of silence that comes after a late night. Saturdays tend to end with music and laughter in the common area, a way for everyone to wind down after the week. I heard the fiddle last night, Charlotte’s mournful notes echoing through the halls, followed by a mix of voices talking over each other until they eventually faded into quiet.

I crack the door open and peek out. The corridor is dim, lit by warm overhead bulbs that flicker occasionally, probably salvaged and jury-rigged to whatever generator powers the place. Voices echo faintly from the common area up the hall—a low murmur of conversation I can’t quite make out. The bathrooms are in the opposite direction, and no one seems to be around.

I pad toward them, relishing the stretch of my legs after lying still too long. The air feels cooler in the hallway, the faint hum of fluorescent lights above a reminder of just how far we are from anything resembling normal. The walls are carved into rough stone, reinforced here and there with salvaged wood panels. A few faded posters hang unevenly, relics from before the Convergence—travel ads for Texas Hill Country, complete with rolling green fields and happy families posing in front of wildflowers.

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