Page 11

11

TILDA

F our long, grueling days pass in a blur of sweat, dirt, and aching muscles.

The work never seems to stop. Each morning starts before the sun fully rises, the pack emerging from the den like shadows in the pale light. By mid-morning, we’re already drenched in sweat, hands blistered from tilling the rocky soil and pulling out stubborn roots. The cleared field needs constant attention—every night we lay down tarps to keep the grass from reclaiming its territory, and every day we churn the soil, rock by rock, clod by clod, until it feels like we’re fighting the earth itself.

Charlotte’s mate, Elijah, shows up periodically with supplies. He’s tall, quiet, and efficient, always hauling sacks of fertilizer or tools without much fanfare. I can’t help wondering where he’s sourcing everything—fertilizer isn’t exactly easy to come by these days—but I don’t ask. The less I know, the better, probably.

Still, when I see the fertilizer bags stacked neatly by the edge of the field, relief washes over me. Whatever strings Elijah’s pulling, they’re worth it.

Reyes is there every day too. He works alongside us without complaint, his shirt discarded by mid-morning, his tan skin glistening in the sun. At first, I expect him to throw his weight around, to bark orders or question my plans. But he doesn’t.

Not once.

In fact, he keeps his distance from me. He doesn’t talk to me, doesn’t hover, doesn’t do anything that could remotely be construed as invasive. He just…works. Obediently, quietly, following my instructions without argument. It’s almost unsettling how seamlessly he integrates himself into the rhythm of the work.

For such a big, bad wolf, he’s surprisingly compliant.

Despite my better judgment, I start to find myself drawn to him. Not in a let’s be friends kind of way—no, it’s something much more primal, something I can’t entirely control.

It’s his scent.

That heady, intoxicating mixture of red wine and incense wraps around me like a warm blanket, especially in the heat of the afternoon when the air grows thick and heavy. His natural musk blends into it, earthy and powerful, and it’s so potent I catch myself leaning closer without realizing it.

It’s maddening.

Sometimes I think I could fall asleep drowning in that scent, letting it lull me into some kind of trance where the work doesn’t matter and my aching muscles don’t exist. But I can’t let that happen. I won’t .

Still, when he moves near me to grab a tool or haul a sack of fertilizer, I have to remind myself to breathe.

It’s been four days of this strange, silent dance, and I don’t know how much longer I can keep pretending I don’t notice him—or worse, pretending I don’t care.

The sun sets on a Saturday night, painting the Texas sky in rich jewel tones. Grapefruit-pink clouds drift over a royal purple backdrop, bolts of warm lightning flashing in the thunderheads of a distant storm froom the west, where the Celestial Curtain still looms. The rumble comes slowly across the hill country, a low, resonant growl that settles deep in my bones.

The sky…it’s such a gorgeous, natural color. I never realized how much I missed seeing it like this, unfiltered by the Celestial Curtain.

Charlotte is playing the fiddle on the other side of the porch, a slow song that seems to be putting the rest of us to sleep. Peaches is lying on her back on the porch, a flannel shirt draped over her face to keep out the light as her chest slowly rises and falls. Charlotte’s mate is leaning against a porch railing, sipping from a mason jar with worship in his eyes. Grant is chatting with a couple other people over by the visitor center, discussing the weather.

It strikes me as perfectly ordinary.

And I realize this is bad…because I’m getting comfortable here.

Sleeping on Peaches’ sofa. Working from sunup to sundown. Getting to know Charlotte and the pack, realizing they’re just people. Spending every evening on the front porch of the visitor center, listening to Charlotte play her fiddle as the day winds down.

It’s disarming, how quickly this has become routine.

I can’t believe I came here to hurt them.

It’s only been a week, but my time here has warped everything I thought I knew about lycanthropes and the Heavenly Host. I used to think the Angels came to protect us, that the lycans needed their guidance to keep themselves safe. Then I started to distrust the divinity of the Angels…but I still figured they wanted to protect us.

But this place—this pack—it’s heavenly in its own way.

And there are children here. Happy, free children. They don’t live with the threat of a Blessing hanging over their head–the threat that the Angels might choose them to join their armies of cyborgs, take them far away.

We never had that in Homestead.

Was I even happy all this time? Is Enid happy?

“How about a drink?”

Reyes’ voice pulls me from my thoughts, and I glance up to find him standing over me, his broad shoulders blocking out the last sliver of sunlight. He holds out a mason jar, condensation dripping down its sides.

I take it, relishing the cool glass against my sore, blistered palm. “What is it?”

“Moonshine,” he says with a snort. “We don’t get much else around here, and I’ve learned not to ask too many questions.”

I hazard a sip, bracing for a fiery burn, but it’s smoother than I expected. “Not bad.”

“Be careful,” he chuckles. “That’s how it gets you.”

He moves to leave, but on impulse, I reach out and snag the leg of his jeans. “Hey,” I say, glancing up at him. “You can stick around if you want. I don’t mind the company.”

He hesitates, frowning. “You sure?”

“Yeah,” I say softly.

Reyes steps off the edge of the porch and settles beside me, keeping a respectful distance but still close enough to feel the heat radiating from him.

“I figure you can’t be all that bad if you’ve been willing to help out all week,” I add, “even though you’re supposed to be this big, important alpha.”

He chuckles, low and warm. “I see you’re learning the lingo…but I hate it when people call me that.”

“What?” I ask. “Alpha Prime?”

The words feel heavy in my throat. Saying them out loud makes me hyper-aware of his size, his presence, the power he carries so effortlessly.

This is why I don’t talk to him. Even when he’s not trying, he works that damn wolf magic on me.

“Yeah,” he says, taking a sip of moonshine and screwing the lid shut with a hiss. A few drops cling to the salt-and-pepper scruff on his jaw, and I catch myself licking my lips as my eyes linger there. “Makes me feel like an expensive cut of steak.”

I bark out a laugh. “Like…prime rib?”

He smirks, amber eyes gleaming. “Exactly. Just missing the garnish.”

“Careful,” I quip. “If you keep this up, someone’s gonna carve you up and serve you on a platter.”

“Let’s hope they bring good wine,” he says, his smirk widening as he leans back. “Seriously though…before all this, I was just a guy,” Reyes says. “Nothing particularly special. Just out of seminary, running the earliest service for five people.”

“Surprised there were even five,” I quip. “I thought Catholicism was out of vogue by then.”

He snorts. “You really know how to twist the knife, don’t you?”

“Sorry,” I shrug. “It’s just…who I am.”

He hums, thoughtful. “I can respect that.”

We fall into a companionable silence, passing the jar back and forth, the sharp edge of the alcohol softening into a pleasant haze that seeps into my skin. It isn’t safe—I know it isn’t—but I let myself lean into it anyway. Mateo joins us, guitar in hand, and he and Charlotte start playing a slow, sultry waltz. The music floats on the humid air, wrapping around us like a shared memory of better times.

“I forgot what the sky looked like,” I say suddenly, my eyes fixed on the horizon.

Reyes shifts beside me, not closer but somehow more open. “There’s something divine about it, isn’t there? Like a direct window to God.”

“For years, I’ve been in a red haze,” I murmur, thinking about the Celestial Curtain and the blue skies of my childhood. “And here...”

I trail off, unsure how to articulate the pull that brought me here—the sense that I was always meant to find this place, to find him .

“How do you reconcile it all?” I ask finally, still not looking at him.

“What do you mean?”

“The Angels. The Rapture. Heaven and hell going to war on Earth. How do you reconcile all of that with your belief in the big guy upstairs?”

Reyes opens the mason jar, takes a long swig, and exhales slowly. “I have to believe it’s all part of God’s plan. And…I think there’s something divine about what we’ve become. That He would show us exactly who we’re meant to be with, rather than leave us wandering the earth, searching…the things they called Blessings were in fact blessings in disguise. God gave us grace when we needed it most..”

I want to ask if there’s a Mrs. Garza, if there ever was. But I don’t.

Instead, I say, “I didn’t peg you for a romantic.”

“Must be something in the air,” he says, nodding toward Charlotte and Elijah.

I follow his gaze. Charlotte’s playing her fiddle, but her eyes are locked on Elijah, who’s staring at her like she’s his entire world.

When I look back at Reyes, I catch a flicker of the same expression on his face—directed at me.

“He proposed to her last week,” Reyes says quietly. “It’ll be the first wedding I’ve performed since the Convergence. And my brother won’t be there to walk her down the aisle.”

I can’t look away from him now. The way he chews his lip, his hulking shoulders tensed even at rest—it’s like I’m seeing the weight he carries for the first time.

“What happened to him?” I ask softly.

“Charlotte’s dad?” Reyes sighs, his eyes shutting briefly. “He was executed during a protest in San Antonio, along with her mom. It was a long time ago.”

I inhale sharply, flashes of those protests playing in my mind. I knew the executioners.

Some of them still live in Homestead.

“Jesus,” I mutter. “I’m…I’m so sorry.”

“It wasn’t your fault.”

I wince. Maybe it wasn’t, but it could have been. I put down a fair number of protests with my unit…and I probably killed mothers, fathers, grandparents…somebody’s baby.

“Charlotte said she was new here,” I say, my voice tentative. “You just reconnected?”

Reyes nods. “Her grandparents took her after the Convergence,” he says. “A lot of people think we’re monsters. That what the Angels did to us when they blessed us stripped away our humanity. And…well, we weren’t on good terms with Charlotte’s mother’s family. They didn’t care for us, even before we were turned.”

“Why not?”

He sighs, his voice quieter now. “Her grandparents were Baptists. Old-fashioned, conservative. And they didn’t much approve of the match.”

“Because your family was Catholic?”

Reyes snorts. “No; Mexican. Ironic that now those seem like simpler times.”

I blink, thrown off by the direction we’ve gone. No one talks about that stuff anymore–everything was eclipsed by the Convergence. The presence of the divine and infernal made us forget.

But when I think about Homestead…we kept our old prejudices, didn’t we?

I clear my throat, not knowing what to say. “So Charlotte–your brother and sister-in-law had already been turned? She’s full Lycan?”

“Yep–and her grandparents tried to hide it, but the truth comes out,” he says. “She found Elijah completely by accident.”

He looks at me then, his dark eyes warm and searching, and I feel my armor start to crack. I can’t say what I’m thinking—that maybe he believes I’m his mate. That maybe I’m starting to believe it too.

“I’m glad she found you,” I say softly.

But I’m not sure if the ‘she’ is Charlotte.

I think it might be me.