Page 5

5

REYES

T ilda.

Her name bounces around in my head as I knot the blindfold at the back of her neck. I drag out the contact, even though I know I shouldn’t.

Just tie it. Be done with it.

But my fingers betray me, brushing against her skin, lingering in a moment I can’t afford. She shivers beneath my touch, a subtle tremor that shoots straight through me, igniting something raw and dangerous.

Damn it.

I shiver too.

This isn’t just a mistake—it’s a disaster waiting to happen.

I should’ve told her the second she woke up. Should’ve said, “Hey, by the way, I bit you last night to save your life. Oh, and now your body’s gonna react to me like I’m the only man in the universe.”

Instead, I kept my mouth shut. Told myself it was better this way.

Told myself I’d make the right choice and not pursue this…whatever this is. Told myself I’d keep my vows intact, hold fast to the promises I made years ago, and resist the pull that’s threatening to unravel me.

But now? Now I’ve just made it a million times harder to fight.

How the hell am I supposed to explain that I didn’t save her out of some holy calling, but because she’s my mate? She’s human. She doesn’t have a clue what that means—doesn’t know why every cell in my body is pulling me toward her like she’s magnetic. Why the thought of letting her go feels like it might kill me.

I didn’t even know a lycan could sense a mate bond with a human; it’s never happened before. Even with infected folks, they almost always match alpha to omega, rarely outside of that.

It doesn’t make sense. Shouldn’t be possible.

But here she is, turning my world inside out with nothing more than her scent, her presence.

Is this the biggest mistake of my life? Yeah, probably. Because now, not only have I tied myself to her in a way I can’t explain, I’ve also made resisting her nearly impossible. And if I break? If I let my wolf win, give in to the bond pulling us together, I won’t just lose my vows—I’ll lose myself.

And now I have to fix it. Somehow. Without tearing my pack apart. Without tearing myself apart.

The universe wastes no time reminding me just how screwed I am.

When I open the door, Frankie–our only female alpha and the biggest hardass here–is waiting. She’s leaning against the wall like she’s been there all morning, arms crossed, hazel eyes locked on me in a downright frightening scowl.

“Mornin’, Frankie,” I say, trying to keep my voice light, like I don’t feel her glare burning holes in me.

She doesn’t respond.

Doesn’t have to say a thing for me to tell just how pissed she is.

“Is someone there?” Tilda asks, her voice tight.

“Yeah, just Frankie,” I say, pulling Tilda along before Frankie can get a word in. “I told you people aren’t thrilled you’re here. Frankie is just angrier about it than most.”

“Great,” Tilda mutters. “This is going to go well.”

I try to reassure her, even though I’m not sure I believe it myself. “As long as you’re with me, you’ll be fine. No one’s stupid enough to cross me.”

“Fantastic,” she says dryly. “I just need to glue myself to you for the foreseeable future. Sounds like a blast.”

I glance back at her. “Give me a day or two to figure this out. You’ll be fine.”

“Sure,” she says. “I’ll just try not to get murdered in the meantime.”

We head toward the community center–previously a visitor center, now our mess hall and gathering space—and the smell of breakfast hits me. Tortillas and beans. Simple, but it’s food–and when Mateo’s cooking, simple is delicious. Tilda’s stomach growls loud enough to turn heads, and I can’t help smirking.

“Mateo made tetelas ,” I say. “Kind of like black bean dumplings.”

Her face twists in confusion. “What?”

“ Tetelas Oaxaca ,” I clarify. “Our mother used to make it. Mateo does what he can with what we’ve got. Everyone else has probably eaten already, but there should be some left.”

“Mateo?” she asks. “Who’s that?”

I hesitate. Sharing pack details with a crusader—even a half-starved one—isn’t smart.

But she already knows who I am, so what’s the harm?

“My brother,” I say.

“Older or younger?”

“Younger. Ten years.”

“Me too–my sister, I mean,” she says. I can tell she’s considering whether or not to tell me, and I don’t know how it makes me feel when she offers a name. “Enid.”

I open my mouth to say something comforting, but before I can, Grant saunters out of the kitchen, a plate of food in hand and a grin that could rival the devil’s. His gaze flicks to Tilda’s blindfold, and his eyebrows shoot up.

“Freaky,” he says. “Is that for practical reasons or?—”

A low growl escapes me before I can stop it.

“You’re going to need to fuck off unless you want to lose your blackberry rations,” I warn.

Grant throws up his hands in mock surrender. “Alright, alright,” he says, backing off. “No need to bite my head off. Don’t want to get scurvy…”

He sets the plate down at a table with a few other people, and. I sit Tilda down and pull the blindfold off, pocketing it as her eyes adjust to the dim light. She blinks, glancing around. Her gaze snags on the walls, lined with kids’ drawings, and her brow furrows.

“There are children here,” she says, like it’s some huge revelation.

“Just a few,” I say. “Some of our couples wanted families. So they started them.”

“Human?” she asks.

“Some,” I admit. “Some lycan.”

“Huh,” she says. “You...you have humans here.”

“Mmhm,” I nod. “People who felt more secure living out here than they did in the city after the resistance took it. We’re a little more insular here—and well-defended.”

Her lips press into a thin line, but she doesn’t push it. Instead, she picks up a tetela and takes a small bite, chewing slowly. Her eyes flick back to the kids’ drawings on the walls, and I can practically see the gears turning in her head.

“What’s this about blackberry rations?” she asks, her tone casual, though there’s a sharper edge beneath it.

I chuckle, grabbing a tetela for myself and tearing into it. The beans are seasoned well enough, but they still have that faint metallic tang of canned food. “We don’t have much fresh stuff to go around,” I explain. “Blackberries are one of the only things keeping us from scurvy. And yeah, I know—it’s not great for the kids.”

She nods, her gaze dropping to her plate. “Not great for anyone,” she murmurs, her voice softer this time. Her eyes linger on the colorful crayon drawings again—stick figures holding hands, lopsided suns beaming down on rough sketches of the den.

The room goes quiet for a while, the faint clatter of her fork against the plate filling the silence. She chews thoughtfully, her brows pulling together in a faint furrow. I can feel her hesitation, like she’s weighing her next words, her options.

Finally, she looks up, setting her fork down with deliberate care. “I can help you,” she says, her tone even.

My brow arches, and I lean back in my chair. “Oh, yeah?” I ask, keeping my voice light but cautious. “And what’s that gonna cost me?”

Her eyes harden, and I can tell she’s getting right to business. “I want insulin for my sister. She’s diabetic. If I don’t get her what she needs, she’s not going to make it.”

Her voice wavers just enough to punch a hole in my chest. And damn it…I understand. If Mateo was sick…

I reach for her hand without thinking, the movement automatic, instinctual. The second my fingers graze hers, a jolt of electricity shoots up my arm, sharp and undeniable. It’s not just a spark—it’s a surge, a flood of heat that slams into my chest and radiates outward, stealing the air from my lungs.

For a moment, the world feels still, like everything’s holding its breath.

Her eyes snap to mine, wide and startled. Did she feel it too? I can’t tell, but the tension in her frame speaks louder than words. Her lips part, like she’s about to say something…

…but before the moment can stretch any further, she yanks her hand away as if my touch has scalded her.

I drop my hand immediately, curling my fingers into a fist at my side to keep them from reaching for her again. My heart’s pounding in my chest, and I can’t tell if it’s because of the bond, the adrenaline, or the fact that I’ve just made this whole situation even more complicated.

“Sorry,” she mutters. “Got dizzy for a second.”

“You okay?”

She nods, but her fingers twitch against her stomach—right where I bit her. My wolf growls, and for once, I agree with him. She’s lying. Not about the sister—Enid, was it?—but about why she’s here.

This wasn’t just about insulin; they were too well-armed for that.

Still, her offer has weight.

“When does she need it?” I ask, my voice quieter now.

Tilda hesitates, the tension in her jaw telling me she’s weighing how much to reveal. “A month, maybe,” she finally says. “Tops.”

A month. Not much time, but enough to set something in motion—if I take the risk. I exhale slowly, the weight of the decision pressing down on me like lead. The pack needs food. Desperately. If she can actually help us get something sustainable going, it might be worth the gamble. But there are a hundred ways this could go wrong, a hundred ways this could backfire, leaving us worse off than we started.

And then there’s her. The bond. The spark. The distraction I can’t afford.

I glance at her, trying to gauge her sincerity. Her green eyes meet mine, unwavering, steady. She’s stubborn…and she’s desperate. When it comes to her sister needing help, t’s clear she’s not bluffing. She’ll do whatever it takes.

I know what that feels like.

“Deal,” I say finally, extending my hand. “You help us get a farm running, and I’ll find a way to get you insulin.”

Tilda narrows her eyes, suspicion flickering across her face. “And then you’ll let me go?”

I hesitate, knowing the answer she wants and the one I can give are worlds apart. “We’ll see,” I say carefully. “You’ve already seen too much.”

Her jaw tightens, a muscle ticking as she processes my words. For a moment, I think she’s going to argue, but then she exhales sharply and nods. “Fine,” she says. “As long as my sister gets her insulin…I don’t care. You’ve got yourself a deal.”

She reaches out, her fingers closing around mine. Her grip is firm, steady, and as our hands connect, that spark ignites again, surging through me like wildfire. My wolf stirs, restless and clawing at the edges of my control, and I have to fight to keep my face neutral.

Tilda’s lips press into a thin line, but she doesn’t let go. I can’t tell if she feels the bond or if she’s just too focused on the deal to notice, but it doesn’t matter. The connection is there, undeniable, and it’s making my whole body react.

Her fingers tighten slightly, and I can’t help but wonder—again—if this is the worst mistake I’ve ever made.