Page 87 of Taken By the Alpha Priest

Not a great sign.

“Yes,” Reyes calls, his voice calm. “I swear, we’re only here to talk. I don’t mean you or your people any harm.”

I glance up at the watchtower, where the glint of a rifle catches the dull red light of the Celestial Curtain. The sights are unwavering, locked on Reyes like the gunner is waiting for permission to pull the trigger. My heartbeat thunders in my ears as I wonder if Patrick will give that order.

It would be so easy for him to end this right now. To erase us both.

I clench my fists at my sides, resisting the urge to yell.

Or beg.

The silence stretches out again, brittle and suffocating, like the world is holding its breath along with me. All the hopes I’ve built with Reyes hang in the balance.

Finally, Patrick steps into view, his silhouette sharp against the gloom. “Keep your guard up,” he barks, his voice carrying the same no-nonsense authority I remember from the old days.

The rifle doesn’t lower. The tension doesn’t break. But at least he’s come out.

I take a shallow, steadying breath, wishing I could reach out to Reyes—grab his hand, feel his warmth, remind myself that we’re in this together. But I don’t move. We can’t let them know what’s between us, not yet.

Patrick’s boots crunch against the dirt as he approaches, his eyes scanning Reyes with the sharp precision of a man who’s seen more battles than he’d like to admit. His gaze flicks to me next, and there’s recognition there—a flicker of something that might be trust or might be judgment. I can’t tell yet, and it makes my stomach churn.

“Howdy, Tilda,” Patrick says, lifting his chin. “Thought you were a goner.”

He’s wearing the same damn ten-gallon hat he always does, his sleeves rolled up and his jeans snug on his hips. He’s about sixty, with balding with bushy grey eyebrows and a scruffy beard. He’s been in charge of Homestead as long as I can remember, a sometimes hard, but fair ruler. There was a time when he used to say me and Enid were like daughters to him.

I hope that will carry us through this conversation.

“Not as dead as you imagined,” I say. “I would’ve been, if the Austin pack had been everything we thought they were. But they never laid a hand on me, even though I went to their camp with…violent intentions.”

Patrick chuckles—like it’s funny that I approached the den with a rifle and intent to kill. Reyes doesn’t blink an eye. “I didn’t authorize that mission, if I’m remembering correctly,” Patrick says.

“You didn’t,” I say. “I assume that’s why you didn’t send anyone after me?”

“Correct,” he cocks an eyebrow. “Your sister here has been keeping an eye on you, though. Told us you were okay, even though the damn wolves shot you.”

I frown. “Is that what David told you?”

Enid glances back toward the gate, her brow furrowed. I catch a glimpse of David lurking in the shadows, the damn coward unwilling to come out.

Patrick’s eyes narrow, skepticism hardening his expression. “That isn’t what happened?”

“Nope,” I say, planting my hands on my hips, my tone sharp. “It was an accident. David got spooked and shot me in the gut.”

There’s a beat of stunned silence before Enid’s jaw drops, her wide eyes darting toward the gate. “David? You…youshotmy sister?”

From behind the gate, David’s voice is barely audible, like he’s trying to disappear into the woodwork. “I was aiming for the…uh…monster behind her. I just…I haven’t had a lot of practice.”

“Jesus Christ,” Enid hisses, throwing her hands up in frustration. “Youshother?”

“Maybe you shouldn’t have put a gun in his hand, Tilda,” Patrick cuts in, his voice laced with disapproval. His eyes pierce me, the weight of old authority bearing down hard. “You should’ve known better.”

“Fair,” I admit, my tone clipped. “That’s on me.”

Patrick’s gaze doesn’t soften, but he shifts focus, his attention sliding past me to the figure looming just a few steps back. His lips press into a thin line as he sizes Reyes up, and the air between us grows taut, like a drawn bowstring.

“And now you’ve brought another problem to my doorstep,” Patrick says, his voice low and even. His eyes linger on Reyes, cold and calculating. “You must be the famous Father Garza.”

There’s a condescension in his tone that makes me want to spit. Reyes doesn’t budge, though, staying still as a statue with his hands in the air.

---