Page 32

32

REYES

I spend too long in crippling, terrifying darkness.

The pain is almost too much, drowning me. My chest aches, an open wound in the air, like my heart itself has been torn out. When we get out from under the Celestial Curtain, the light of the late afternoon sun hurts my eyes, the thundering of hooves lulling me into a sleep I’m not sure I’ll wake up from.

Our healing powers are superhuman, but even monsters can be killed by a direct shot to the chest.

And I need the light of the moon to fully heal.

The next thing I hear is voices surrounding me, hands holding me as I’m carried off the horse and into the den. Familiar scents envelop me, my family holding me in their embrace. Someone is crying, salt on the air. A bandage is placed over my chest. It hurts. I don’t want the ache to go away when the reason for it is notably absent.

Is this the pain of a gunshot, or heartbreak?

Is this what it feels like to be torn away from your mate?

“Thank God you were there,” a woman’s voice says. I recognize it, though it’s not the voice I’m yearning to hear.

“He didn’t want us to come, but I figured things might go south, and Frankie didn’t seem comfortable with it at all…”

Elijah and Charlotte. They’re the only others here in the room, along with Suyin. The medic must have said family only was allowed.

“Where is he?” a voice calls from the corridor, tight with urgency.

Mateo.

I try to move, to turn my head toward the sound, but my body feels like it’s made of lead. My chest burns with a sharp, searing pain, and even the faintest movement sends waves of agony rippling through me. I can’t open my eyes—the light cuts through my skull like shards of glass.

This must be what Tilda felt when she was shot in the stomach. The memory hits me like another blow. Tilda. I need her. I need her here to tend to the wound, her bite, her kiss—anything to pull me back from this precipice. She could heal me in hours if she was here.

Where is she?

“Oh God,” Mateo’s voice cracks as he reaches me. I hear the scuffle of his knees hitting the floor beside the bed, the breathless panic in his whisper. “Santa María, Madre de Dios, ruega por nosotros, los pecadores, ahora y en la hora de nuestra muerte… amén.”

He takes my hand, his grip tight enough to cut off my circulation. His fingers tremble as they wrap around mine, anchoring me in the present moment. The pain in my chest dulls under the pressure of his touch, but the desperation in his voice cuts deeper. Mateo hasn’t prayed in nearly a decade.

Not since he lost his husband in the first days of the Convergence…when the world went mad and told people like them they were destined for hell.

“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 thing I 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.”

Elijah sucks his lips into a tight smile, his pale eyes darting toward the floor. “You never gave me a direct order,” he says, probably expecting to be chastised.

“Thank you,” I breathe. “You, Charlotte, Grant…and Frankie. You all deserve my thanks.”

He lets out a sigh of relief, shaking his head. “It was all Frankie, actually,” he says. “She was insistent that the two of you weren’t safe, so we just followed to keep an eye on you. And you know I’m always down for a run.”

“And Tilda?” I ask. I already know the answer—if she was here, she would be in this room—but I have to hear it so I can start formulating a plan. “Is she hurt?”

“Not as far as we know,” Elijah says. “Frankie tried to grab her, but they took her behind the walls.”

I want to scream at him for not trying harder to get her—to lash out. Instead, I breathe through it, staring down at my balled fists. “You did the right thing,” I say. “I was…I was wrong to think we could help them.”

“But you tried,” Charlotte says. “Some people just won’t let themselves be saved.”

I exhale heavily and let my head fall back against the hospital bed, my gaze fixed on the uneven stone ceiling above me. The world feels fragile, like it’s teetering on the edge of collapse, but I’m here—barely. My chest aches with every shallow breath, a brutal reminder of how close I came to losing everything.

The door creaks open, and a moment later, I catch Suyin’s scent, sharp and clean like fresh herbs. I glance toward her as she steps into the room, her expression all business but softening slightly when our eyes meet.

“You’re awake,” she says, her voice steady. “Good.”

“I was an idiot,” I say, my voice rasping against the dryness in my throat.

“Not such an idiot,” she says, tilting her head in thought. “After all, you made me third-in-command last night. An idiot wouldn’t do that.”

“It’s because you’re smart enough not to make decisions like the one I did,” I reply, wincing as I shift slightly on the bed.

“You’re just an idealist,” Charlotte says from somewhere near the foot of the bed. I hadn’t even noticed her come in, but her presence is grounding. “Nothing wrong with that.”

“My ideals almost got me killed,” I grunt. The memory of the bullet tearing into my chest flashes through my mind, accompanied by the gut-wrenching image of Tilda’s face when I went down. “And Tilda…”

“We’re going to get her back,” Elijah cuts in. “Frankie is already working on a plan. I didn’t think they were friends, but our cranky little Brit seems to have taken quite the shine to your mate.”

“And Tilda won’t just let herself be held prisoner,” Charlotte adds. “I know we’ve only had her with us for a short time, but she’s one of us. She won’t tolerate being separated from the pack.”

“She’s stubborn,” Suyin agrees, her tone thoughtful. “If anyone can hold their own against those people, it’s her.”

“I hope so,” I say, my voice barely above a whisper. My hand tightens around the blanket, frustration bubbling just beneath the surface. “But that’s not what I’m worried about. What if they don’t let her go? What if they…?”

I can’t bring myself to finish the thought. The possibility of them hurting her—or worse—sits heavy in my chest, far worse than the bullet wound ever could.

Charlotte moves closer, her hand resting lightly on my arm. “Uncle Reyes, Tilda is a fighter. She’s going to find a way to hold on. And we’re going to find a way to get her out.”

Elijah steps forward, his expression hard but determined. “We’ll do whatever it takes. We don’t leave our own behind.”

The room falls quiet, the weight of their words settling over us like a tangible thing. For a moment, I allow myself to believe them—to trust in their loyalty, in their determination. But the doubt still lingers, clawing at the edges of my mind.

“And if she doesn’t hold on?” I ask softly. “If they break her spirit?”

“They won’t,” Suyin says, her voice firm. “Tilda’s not someone you can break easily.”

“And if they try?” I press.

Charlotte’s eyes narrow, and for the first time, I see a spark of ferocity in her that reminds me of Tilda. “Then we make them regret it.”

Her words hang in the air, sharp and electric, filling the room with renewed purpose. For the first time since I woke up, a flicker of hope takes root in my chest. They’re right. Tilda is a fighter. And we’re going to fight for her.

“We’ll figure it out,” I say finally, my voice gaining strength. “Whatever it takes, we’ll bring her home.”

Elijah nods, a fierce grin spreading across his face. “Damn right we will.”