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TILDA

A m I dead?

That’s the first thought that crosses my mind. I mean, I must be, right? I’m warm, safe, comfortable. There’s a strong arm wrapped around my waist, a massive body pressed against my back. It’s…nice.

Too nice.

I breathe in, and at first, all I catch is the scent of blood—mine, I think—but then something deeper kicks in. Something heady and rich.

Incense. Red wine.

Man.

His beard brushes the back of my neck, a soft scrape of rough, wiry hair that sends an unexpected shiver down my spine. It’s instinctive, the way my body reacts, stretching ever so slightly, inviting him closer without even thinking about it. The movement earns a response—his arm tightens around my waist, and I feel the slow, deliberate touch of his lips grazing my throat.

Soft. Controlled.

Like he knows exactly what he’s doing.

I’m wearing a loose tanktop and sweats, not even fully bare, but every point of contact is too much…and not enough. The heat of his chest seeps through the thin fabric, warming my back, while his breath, slow and steady, washes over my skin. It’s intimate. Too intimate. But there’s something disarming about it, something that makes me melt into the moment despite the sharp edges lingering at the edge of my awareness.

I should be panicking. I should care. But right now? I don’t.

Instead, I let my hand drift back, fingers brushing over the curve of his hip as I search for something more. Skin. Warmth. Some tangible proof that this is real. But my fingertips meet cotton pants instead of the bare skin I was expecting.

Damn. A soft sigh escapes my lips as I nestle deeper into the pillow beneath my cheek, giving in just a little longer. His hand moves then, skimming up my ribs in a slow, deliberate glide. My breath catches—it’s perfect. Too perfect. For a fleeting moment, there’s nothing but the warmth of his touch and the steady, grounding weight of his presence.

And then his fingers find the spot.

No…not that spot.

Pain flares, sharp and searing, tearing through the haze like a slap to the face. My body jolts, the moment shattering in an instant.

Reality comes crashing back, dragging me with it.

Oh, shit.

I jerk upright so fast I almost fall off the bed, scrambling away like a wild animal. My back hits the wall, and I huddle there, wide-eyed and panicked, taking in the guy I just woke up with.

It’s him .

Reyes. Fucking. Garza.

I’ve seen him plenty of times through binoculars—watched him long enough to memorize every pore, every stray silver thread in his beard—but nothing prepared me for this.

Up close, he’s massive . Bigger than I imagined, his presence filling the room like he’s carved out of the space itself. His shoulders are broad, the kind of broad that makes doorways look too small, and his chest is a wall of bronzed muscle, dusted lightly with silver hair that gleams under the flickering light of the oil lamp. Every line of him is sharp, sculpted—defined cheekbones, a strong jaw framed by his salt-and-pepper beard, and a nose that’s slightly crooked, like it’s been broken more than once and never set quite right.

He’s shirtless, his torso tapering into a lean, powerful waist. A pair of worn sweatpants sit low on his hips, hugging his muscular thighs just enough to hint at the sheer strength coiled in his frame. The silver cross resting against his chest catches the lamplight.

And then there are his eyes. Dark, deep-set, and relentless, they seem to pierce straight through me, stripping me bare. There’s intelligence in them, sure, but also something untamed. Dangerous.

Like he could crush me in an instant and wouldn’t even need to shift to do it.

Up close, Reyes Garza isn’t just terrifying. He’s overwhelming—a storm contained in the body of a man, and I’m caught dead in the center of it.

And he’s got his hands up, like I’m the dangerous one here.

“It’s okay,” he says, his voice low and calm, like he’s trying not to spook me. “I’m not going to hurt you.”

It’s only then that I take in my own state–sore and a little bloody…but wearing clean clothes. Someone cleaned me up–probably him.

“You undressed me,” I snarl, panic rising.

“Not me,” he says. “Our doctor.”

“Right–as if I can believe you,” I say. “I mean…look at me! I’m…I’m so bloody, you almost killed me–”

“I didn’t do that,” he says, dead serious.

“Right, of course you didn’t…”

“You can deny it all you want,” he says with a shrug. “But whoever that kid was with you? He’s the one who shot you. Right in the gut. I’m the only reason you’re still breathing.”

Holy shit...

David.

It all hits me at once—the woods, the wolf, David panicking like a dumbass and pulling the trigger. My hand flies to my stomach, expecting to feel torn flesh and a bullet hole, but instead, my fingers find neat stitches.

No bandages, just a row of stitches–like this was no big deal.

“How…?” I breathe. “If he shot me in the gut, how the hell am I still alive? How am I even awake right now?”

Reyes hesitates, like he’s weighing how much he wants to tell me. “We used…a lycanthrope technique to help you heal,” he says finally. “Don’t worry about it.”

Don’t worry about it? I open my mouth to respond, but then my brain catches up to something else. “Why the hell were we—” I gesture vaguely at the bed. “—like that? Why are you half-naked?”

“Skin-to-skin contact,” he says, running a hand through his salt-and-pepper hair like this is a completely normal thing to explain. “It’s…a lycanthrope thing.”

I gape at him. “That’s not an answer.”

“It’s the only answer you’re getting,” he says, folding those massive arms over his chest.

I stare at him, still trying to catch up. Reyes Garza. The Alpha Prime. The man I came here to kill. And here I am, wearing someone else’s clothes, stitched up, and somehow still alive because of him.

This is a disaster.

“Well,” I say eventually, trying to sound casual. “Thanks for saving my life, I guess. Can I go now?”

He barks out a laugh, shaking his head. “Oh, sweetheart. No. You came into my house. Just because you lost doesn’t mean you get to walk away scot-free.”

The term of endearment grates on me, making me clench my fists. If anyone back at Homestead called me that…well, everyone there knows what would happen. But here, I don’t have a lot of leverage.

“So I’m your prisoner?” I ask, my voice rising.

“For now,” he says, with a maddening calm. “You did show up with a rifle and a knife. I can’t exactly let you walk out of here.”

“Do you sleep with all your prisoners, or am I just special?”

That gets him. He stiffens, his jaw ticking, but he doesn’t rise to the bait. Instead, he stands taller, his shadow stretching across the room.

I might be intimidated if I wasn’t tall myself, but I just puff out my chest instead.

I’ve never let a man scare me. I’m not gonna start now.

“What’s your name?” he asks, his voice dropping.

I freeze. He doesn’t know who I am–doesn’t know that I’m the captain of the guard back in Homestead, that my absence means they’re not as well-defended. That gives me an edge. I should lie. I know I should lie.

“What. Is. Your. Name?” he says again, each word a command. I don’t know exactly what happens, but his tone makes me straighten my spine, look into his eyes–

And I blurt out the truth.

“Tilda,” I say. “Matilda Bingham, from Homestead.”

His lips twitch like he’s trying not to smirk. I don’t know what just happened; I was going to play the undercover agent, but here I am, telling him whatever he wants to know. If he’s at all familiar with Homestead, he’s now fully aware that I’m the captain of the guard, that they’re probably not nearly as well defended now that I’m gone.

“Matilda Bingham,” he says, rolling my name over his tongue. “Why did you come here last night?”

My mouth opens, but I have no idea what to say. I clearly came here with a hit squad. How do I spin that?

“I…” My voice falters, and I scramble for a distraction. “I’m thirsty,” I say, playing up the helpless act. “Can I have some water?”

Reyes tilts his head, studying me. His expression softens, and I file that reaction away for later. Vulnerability works on him. Interesting.

He turns to grab a silver pitcher from the table, and as he pours, I scan the room for anything I can use as a weapon. My eyes land on the oil lamp. It’s risky, but it’s my best shot.

I’m just about to lunge when a low growl rumbles through the air, freezing me in place. Reyes doesn’t even turn around. “I wouldn’t recommend that,” he says, calm as ever. “I’m the only thing keeping the others from ripping you apart.”

That stops me cold. “The others?”

He nods, putting the pitcher down. “My pack,” he says. “You’re a crusader, aren’t you? They want you dead.”

“And why don’t you?” I ask, genuinely confused. “Why save me at all?”

His gaze flicks to me, sharp and unreadable. “Because I’m a man of God,” he says simply.

I stare at him. “You’re what? ”

“A priest,” he says, like that explains everything. “And I try to stick to my vows—celibacy included—so you don’t have to worry about me sleeping with you.”

I don’t know whether to laugh or cry. “You’re serious?”

“Dead serious.”

“You…” I pause. “But you killed my men.”

“One of them,” he says. “The other two were killed by my lieutenants.”

“So what makes me different?”

Reyes leans casually against the table, like we’re discussing the weather. “I couldn’t let you die out there. You’d already given up on the fight. What kind of man would I be if I let you bleed out?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” I snap. “The kind of man who’s being hunted by the Heavenly Host and maybe shouldn’t save random crusaders?”

Reyes narrows his eyes. “You weren’t a threat to me in that moment. And besides, you were running. If you’d stayed and tried to stab me in the ribs, then…well, we wouldn’t be having this conversation.”

“So, what—you’re just gonna keep me locked up here forever?” I ask. “What’s the plan, Father? Because I’ve got people counting on me back home.”

His expression shifts when I use his title, getting feisty…but he softens when I talk about my people. “You have a family?”

My heart clenches, and I glance away, already regretting letting that slip. “A sister,” I mutter. “And she’s probably losing her mind right now.”

Reyes exhales, his brow furrowing. “I get it,” he says, and for a moment, he sounds almost…sympathetic. “But you know why I can’t just let you walk out of here, right?”

I nod stiffly. “Yeah, I get it. And if I were in your position, you’d probably already be dead.”

He blinks, then lets out a low chuckle. “Honesty suits you, Matilda.”

“It’s a curse,” I mutter. “One you’ll probably hate once the interrogation starts.”

Reyes smirks. “Noted.”

He pushes off the table and heads to a massive wooden cabinet by the door, pulling out a clean white T-shirt. As he slips it over his head, the fabric stretches tight over his shoulders and chest, doing absolutely nothing to diminish how ridiculously built he is. He looks damn good for a priest, no matter how much I want to deny it.

“So, what now?” I ask, crossing my arms. “You’re not leaving me here, are you?”

“No,” he says, shaking his head. “This isn’t a cell. It’s my room.”

“Oh.” I glance around again, noticing the personal touches—the books, the cross, the old clock. There’s even a bloodstained blanket in the corner, courtesy of…well, me, I guess. “Sorry.”

Reyes chuckles, moving over to a dresser. “Don’t worry about it. But no, I can’t leave you here. And since we don’t have a proper jail…you’re coming with me.”

I stiffen. “You’re joking.”

“Not even a little,” he says, pulling a black silk tie from the dresser. “But first, I’ll need to blindfold you.”

“No way,” I say, backing up instinctively. “Not happening.”

Reyes raises an eyebrow. “If I was your prisoner, and you had to take me through your base, would you just let me wander around, memorizing every exit?”

I grind my teeth. “Fair point.”

“Good,” he says, stepping closer. “Turn around.”

I hesitate, every muscle in my body tensing, but eventually, I turn my back to him. The heat of his body washes over me as he steps into my space, and I swallow hard, trying not to think about how close he is.

“Trust me,” he murmurs, his voice low and rough. “I’m not going to hurt you.”

The tie slips over my eyes, and his hands work quickly to knot it at the back of my head. His knuckles brush my skin, sending a shiver down my spine. I clench my fists at my sides, willing myself not to react.

“You okay?” he asks, his voice softer now.

“Peachy,” I mutter, even though my pulse is racing.

“Good,” he says. “Because Mateo cooked this morning, and I’m starving.”

The mention of food makes my stomach growl embarrassingly loud. I haven’t eaten since yesterday afternoon, and the thought of anything homemade—even from a bunch of wolves—has my mouth watering.

“Fine,” I say grudgingly. “Lead the way.”

Reyes’s hand brushes my arm, guiding me toward the door, and I grit my teeth against the jolt of heat that sparks at his touch. This whole situation is insane. He’s insane.

And apparently, I’m insane too, because a tiny, traitorous part of me doesn’t hate it.