Page 14

14

REYES

W e don’t typically keep to the same patterns as a normal service would. There’s no organ music or call to worship, no structured ritual. Instead, the pack filters out of the den into the late morning light, their voices buzzing softly, breaking into laughter or greetings as they take their seats on makeshift pews: mismatched old chairs, log benches, and even some upturned crates. The chatter mingles with the sound of children playing, a baby’s sharp cry cutting through the hum.

Magnolia, the preschool teacher, kneels a few feet away with a cluster of toddlers, dark curls pulled up at the crown of her head. She waves a stick in front of them, drawing their attention to the dirt as she traces wobbly shapes. “That’s a circle,” she says patiently, her face lighting up as one of the little ones claps their chubby hands. “Good job, Mia!”

A lanky boy sitting on one of the benches nearby turns around to tease them, sticking out his tongue. Magnolia glances up and snaps her fingers. “Tommy, don’t make me come over there!”

Tommy grins but straightens up, while Magnolia shakes her head, muttering under her breath about wolves acting like pups.

The atmosphere is warm, relaxed, an array of emotions and reactions. Charlotte and Elijah sit close together, their hands clasped tight, her head tilting toward his shoulder every now and then. Behind them, Suyin is scribbling something in a notebook–a supply list, maybe. At the back of the gathering, Will stands watch, his arms crossed, his attention fixedin the other direction, on the field stretching toward the boundary wall.

Peaches doesn’t come to Sunday meetings, but she always helps us decorate. Wildflowers are draped over the music stand we use as a pulpit, their petals fresh and vibrant against the weathered metal. More flowers hang from the posts that hold up the patchy sunshade overhead, scattered here and there on the ground around where I stand. She’s already started decorating for the wedding, and Peaches never does anything halfway.

It strikes me that, In three days, my niece will be married. I’ll be walking her down the aisle.

Everything about this feels surreal.

Tilda sits near the front, next to Charlotte, her hands clenched tight on the log bench until her knuckles turn white. The morning light catches in her red hair, painting her in tones of fire and warmth, but her expression is guarded, tense. I take the homily out of my pocket, smoothing the paper that’s crinkled almost beyond recognition. I’m nervous—even though I do this every week, I’m nervous. Almost as nervous as she looks.

I clear my throat. “Morning, everyone.”

The voices fade, the easy chatter quieting as the pack turns their attention to me. It’s not just respect for the Alpha Prime—it’s a trust they’ve placed in me. A trust I’m not sure I deserve, but one I’ll fight to earn.

“As usual, I’ll keep this brief,” I begin. “But I wanted to talk this morning about the things that we carry with us from before the Convergence. The things that keep us human.”

Tilda’s green eyes fix on me, narrowing slightly as if I’ve personally insulted her. I suppose that’s fair–I turned her, didn’t I?

I keep going, though.

“Many of you probably already know that Elijah and Charlotte are planning on getting married here in a few days,” I say. “Charlotte has given me permission to invite all of you. This will be our first wedding in the den since the Convergence.”

A few murmurs ripple through the crowd, a handful of smiles breaking out. Grant, who’s slipped in late, claps Elijah on the shoulder, earning a sheepish grin from the younger man. Charlotte flushes, ducking her head.

“I’m told my services won’t be needed for the wedding itself,” I continue, a faint smile tugging at my lips. “But I wanted to take just a few moments to talk about love. Yeah, call me sappy, but this legitimately used to be a part of my job.”

A few people laugh; Tilda smiles faintly, and something in me trembles.

“I try to take it easy on the Bible quotes,” I say, my tone light. “But this one really got me thinking this week. Matthew 19:6 says of marriage, ‘So they are no longer two, but one flesh. Therefore what God has put together, let no man put asunder.’”

I let the words settle, resonate. Suyin looks up thoughtfully, then scribbles something else in her notebook.

“In the past,” I go on, “this was often applied to divorce, and I can see where that logic lies, but…I’m starting to see it differently. Maybe it’s because of what I see here. Maybe it’s because of Charlotte and Elijah. Maybe because of all of you, your families, the love you’ve made and nurtured in a world that at times feels loveless.”

I glance at Charlotte and Elijah, sitting together near the front, their hands clasped tight. There’s an ease in the way they move around each other, a quiet rhythm that speaks of something deeper than love—understanding. Partnership.

I feel the words catch in my throat, the weight of what I’m about to say pressing down on me. I know how this is going to sound, especially to someone like Tilda. But I can’t avoid it. Not when every instinct in me screams that it’s true.

“It’s hard not to think about this verse in terms of the way our instincts, due to lycanthropy, lock into place when we meet the person we’re meant to be with. Somehow, against the odds, Charlotte and Elijah found each other. Maybe it’s fate. Maybe it’s God. Maybe it’s something else entirely. But I truly believe there’s something divine about that. About the way two people can find each other and create something whole.”

The words hang in the air, and for a moment, the only sound is the faint rustling of wind through the wildflowers Peaches has draped around the chapel. My gaze flicks to Tilda again, and I see something shift in her expression—an almost imperceptible crack in her armor, a flicker of something that makes my wolf stir, restless and wanting.

She knows I’m talking about her– to her.

It scares the hell out of me.

I grip the music stand harder, grounding myself. “All this is to say,” I add, forcing a lighter tone, “that you’ll probably have more fun listening to Peaches give her speech at the wedding.”

A few more people laugh this time, the tension breaking like glass. I hear the warm buzz of their voices, a chuckle from Grant, even a low murmur of approval from Magnolia. The moment softens, but Tilda doesn’t laugh. She doesn’t join the easy camaraderie of the pack. Instead, she watches me with an intensity that feels like a spotlight, her lips parted slightly as if she’s on the verge of speaking.

I look away, swallowing hard, and glance at the crinkled homily in my hand. “Now,” I say, “on to announcements.”

I scan the crowd, steadfastly ignoring the way Tilda is staring at me. Magnolia stands, balancing an infant on her hip while shushing the toddler clinging to her leg. “I’ve got a quick one,” she says, her voice light but firm. “If anyone finds a stray crayon, it’s probably mine. Tommy, that includes you.”

The lanky boy’s face flushes red as laughter bubbles up from the group. Magnolia gives him a pointed look before taking her seat, the infant in her arms settling with a quiet coo.

Grant leans forward. “Supply run this week. I’ll need volunteers to hit the southern outpost on Thursday. Preferably people who don’t mind getting their hands dirty.”

“That’s all of us,” Will quips from the back, earning a few chuckles.

Elijah clears his throat, standing next. “Charlotte and I are still looking for a couple of people to help finish up the cabin repairs before winter. Let me know if you’re free to swing a hammer.”

As more announcements are made, I steal a glance at Tilda. She’s fidgeting with her hands, her gaze darting between the speakers and the ground.

When the announcements wind down, I step back up to the pulpit. “Thanks, everyone. Let’s keep showing up for each other, yeah? You’re dismissed.”

The pack begins to scatter, voices rising as conversations pick up. But Tilda stays seated, her green eyes still trained on me.

And for the first time, I wonder if I’m ready for what comes next.

Breakfast, held just after the Sunday meeting, is wrought with tension. Tilda sits at a different table, her back rigid, shoulders squared. She doesn’t look at me once, but I can feel her thoughts as clearly as if she’d shouted them across the room.

I didn’t write that homily for her–or at least, I didn’t think that’s what I was doing at the time–but I can see now how she might’ve taken it. She’s too smart not to start piecing it together.

She’s more than just someone I saved in a moment of weakness. She’s my mate.

And if she’s figured it out, then she knows what I haven’t told her yet: fate brought us together. The same fate that brought Charlotte and Elijah together. It’s undeniable, like a drumbeat in my chest every time I’m near her.

But that doesn’t mean I can act on it.

The full moon is looming closer every day. Tilda has to be gone by then. If she isn’t, I won’t be able to resist her when the wolf takes control.

As the others finish eating and begin clearing out, I keep my eyes on her. She lingers by the kitchen threshold, her back to me. I think she’s talking to Peaches and Mateo while they clean up, but her glances over her shoulder say otherwise. She knows I’m watching. She’s waiting for me to approach.

It’s time to tell her the truth.

I rise, dreading how this is going to go. Tilda catches my movement, says her goodbyes to the others, and meets me halfway through the visitor center.

“Can we talk?” she asks, crossing her arms over her chest. The movement pulls the fabric of her green sundress taut, highlighting the curve of her waist, the way the sunlight catches on her freckled skin. That scar winds over her thigh like a red ribbon, and all I can think about is tracing it with my lips, learning every story it holds.

“Of course,” I manage. “Walk?”

She nods, and we step out onto the porch. The late August sun bakes the air, the kind of dry, relentless heat that makes you lazy and irresponsible. We take the stairs down into the grass, passing the garden plot where seedlings push their way toward the light, determined and fragile.

It’s a quiet reminder of what she’s already brought to the den: life, hope, possibility.

I glance at her. She looks beautiful here, in this unfiltered sunlight, her hair glinting like polished oak and copper under the Texas sky.

“It was a nice speech,” she says quietly. “I’m surprised they didn’t want you for the wedding.”

“Not a lot of religious folks around here,” I reply. “I try to keep it light, but they wanted their friend to do it.”

“And Charlotte said you’re walking her down the aisle?”

“Yes.” I smile, though it’s tinged with a sharp ache. “It shouldn’t be me, but I’m honored.”

“She’s lucky to have you, even if it’s only been for a short time,” Tilda says. Her voice softens, and I feel the weight of her words settle in my chest.

We walk in silence for a while, the quiet filled with the rustle of the wind through the grass and the distant hum of cicadas. Limestone cliffs taper away from the den, rising up and providing a protective barrier around the property–around us.

“That’s not what you wanted to talk about,” I murmur.

She stops beside a tree, leaning against the trunk. The sun filters through the live oak’s branches, painting her face in gold and shadow. A mockingbird sings overhead, its melody sharp and clear.

“No,” she says. Her fingers fidget with the hem of her dress, twisting the fabric. “It’s not.”

She doesn’t look at me, but I can feel the weight of her question before she speaks.

“I’m her, aren’t I?”

The air between us thickens, the unspoken answer hanging heavy. I glance out toward the perimeter fence, my gaze tracing the horizon as if it holds the answers I can’t bring myself to say.

I’ve fought the urge to tell her so many times, I’ve tried to keep us both safe…but there’s no point in denying it anymore. She already knows.

“You are,” I admit, my voice low.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see her lashes flutter, her lips pressed into a thin line. She pulls at a loose thread on her dress, and the sight of her vulnerability—a crack in her usual sharp edges—shreds what’s left of my defenses.

“What makes you think that?” she asks.

I look back at her, the sunlight catching the golden undertones of her hair, the freckles scattered across her nose. “Because I knew the moment I saw you that I was meant to meet you,” I say softly, my voice steadier than I feel. “It’s why I had to save you—and why I can’t stay away from you. Why you challenge me, fight me every step of the way, and somehow…it only makes me care for you more.”

Tilda exhales sharply, her arms wrapping around her torso like she’s trying to hold herself together. Her eyes flick away from mine, looking at anything but me—the tree bark behind her, the patches of grass, the distant cliffs—before finally landing back on me.

Her teeth catch her lower lip, and for a moment, she just stares at me. Her voice comes low, hesitant, almost too quiet to hear.

“I don’t believe in fate,” she says.

I tilt my head, watching the war she’s fighting within herself. “But you believe in God,” I counter, my tone soft, careful.

She shakes her head sharply, her lip trembling as she releases it from her teeth. “I believe angels came to Earth and proved God doesn’t matter anymore,” she snaps, louder now. Her eyes flash up to meet mine, and there’s fire there—pain, anger, grief all wrapped together. “This isn’t some fairy tale, Reyes. It’s a horror story. I killed your people; you killed mine. You were experimented on by beings I thought were saviors. How can you still believe in God after everything?”

Her words strike deep, the weight of them like a stone in my chest. I take a slow breath, stepping closer but keeping enough distance to give her space. “If God isn’t real—if fate isn’t real—then how do you explain this?” I ask quietly.

She stares at me, her brow furrowing, and I lift my hand slowly, deliberately—not toward her face, but toward her hand. I brush her fingertips with my palm, the barest contact, and it’s like a spark ignites between us. My skin buzzes with the warmth of hers, a jolt racing up my arm and settling in my chest.

She stiffens, her breath catching, and for a moment, I expect her to pull away. But she doesn’t. Her fingers shift, trembling, and then her palm presses fully against mine, tentative but there. Five days without touching her, and I feel like I’m finally breathing again.

Her voice comes shaky, a whisper laced with defiance. “It’s just biology,” she says. “Pheromones or—whatever it is you people do to manipulate someone like me.”

Her words should cut, but there’s no malice in them—only fear. I tighten my fingers around hers, gentle but unyielding, holding her gaze even as her breathing quickens. “It’s not biology, Tilda,” I murmur. “It’s us.”

She shakes her head again, the movement slower this time, her eyes closing as if she’s trying to block me out. “Why does it feel like this?” she whispers, almost to herself. “Like you’re in my head? Like…God, I can’t think straight when you’re near me.”

“Because it’s real,” I say, stepping closer. I can feel her breath now, shallow and uneven, mingling with mine in the air between us. “Whatever you call it—biology, instinct, fate—it’s real. I can feel it, Tilda. I know you can too.”

Her eyes snap open, locking onto mine, and they’re swimming with emotion—fear, confusion, and something deeper, something she’s trying desperately to hide but can’t. Her lips part, but no words come, only a shaky exhale that brushes against my skin.

Then she pulls me that much closer–and presses my hand to her hip, right over the mark I left on her. Even through the thin fabric, I can feel the ridges of the scar—proof of what I’ve done, of what we are.

And touching her over that mark is like…something seals shut, blocking off all exits. I didn’t intend on doing this today–I can’t do this. And yet, we’re stumbling toward the edge of a cliff, about to fall over together.

“What’s stopping you?” she whispers. Her voice is steady, rough–gaze boring into me. “You could tell me to do anything. You could have me if you wanted. If you said the word, I would take my clothes off right here and now and ride you like there’s no tomorrow.”

Lord preserve me . A growl escapes the back of my throat as my hand grasps her hip now, pulling her closer. The words are still coming out, still denying it…but my body is doing anything but.

“I wouldn’t do that,” I bite out, my voice strained.

She drags her gaze up to mine, her lips parting.

And the words she says next are what leave me undone. “What if I wanted you to?”

Temptation crashes over me, sharp and unrelenting. My wolf howls, clawing at the edges of my control, demanding I claim what’s mine. I made a promise—to God, to myself—and breaking it now would mean losing everything…but I’m already in too deep.

“I’m a priest, Tilda,” I murmur. My throat tightens as I force the words out; she’s so close now that I can feel her breath against my lips, taste blackberries. “If God put us in each other’s lives for a reason, this isn’t it. Maybe it’s to forge peace between our settlements, to–”

She steps closer, cutting me off. Her voice drops to a whisper, heavy with challenge.

“Reyes…” she says. “Tell me to kiss you.”

I can’t. I won’t.

So I kiss her instead.