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“It wasn’t your fault.”
But what if it was?
I can’t share that. Not yet.
“Charlotte said she was new here,” I say. “You just found her?”
“Her grandparents took her from us,” Reyes says. “A lot of people think we’re monsters. That the experiments the Angels ran on us when we were blessed took away our humanity.”
I wish I could chastise those people, but I used to be one of them. “But she’s part lycan?”
“Born that way,” he says. “And somehow, she found Elijah completely by accident.”
He looks at me, and I feel my armor starting to fall away bit by bit. There’s so much warmth—so muchheat—in those dark eyes. Right now, they’re more black than brown, onyx and fresh coffee. I can’t say the words I’m thinking: that I have this impression he thinks I’m his mate, that maybe I think he’s mine, too.
Whatever the fuck that means.
Soulmates, maybe.
“I’m glad she found you,” I say, my voice faint.
Although, maybe I’m not talking about Charlotte.
Maybe I’m talking aboutme.
CHAPTER TWELVE
?
REYES
Even with all the commotion around the den, I still have a homily to write.
We’ve done this ever since we arrived here, in some semblance of normalcy. Most days of the week, we go out on raids or on supply runs to the city. We hang out in the den and play old salvaged board games, we listen to music, we cook.
And on Sundays, we go to church.
The pack isn’t uniform in its beliefs—not at all. We’ve got someone from every walk of life, from every religious background. Elijah is a militant atheist, Charlotte agnostic. Suyin practices Buddhism, while Grant belongs to what he calls the “Church of the Flying Spaghetti Monster.”
But we all gather on Sunday morning as a way to mark the week, to be together in the sunlight, and to hear announcements. We share the things that frighten us, that soothe us, and that bring us joy…and I try to stay as un-preachy as possible, especially given how much shit I’ve gotten from Grant.
This week, I have a lot on my mind, and I use the homily as a way to parse all that. Tilda’s presence here has changed me, whether I like it or not. Her scent is constantly with me, her emotions tearing through me like wildfire.
What could that be but God?
And she’s brought another element to my life: getting back to the earth, putting my hands in the soil. In the past week, we’ve been busy planting seedlings and watching them grow, green leaves pushing out of the soil.
Something feral deep in my heart roars at me to accept what I already know: that this is my mate, the woman I was destined to be with, that breeding her would be the best way to serve God.
My wolf is, of course wrong.
But still…
She’s a symbol of fertility, bringing life to the den.
And I’m a damn fool.
By the time Saturday night rolls around, I still haven’t figured out what I’m going to talk about the next morning. The words aren’t flowing, I can’t seem to figure out what this all means, and it all seems pointless. I don’t know what being a priest even means if I’m not going to keep to my vow of celibacy, and Tilda’s scent lingers in my room even now, luring me back to bed to relieve the pressure of wanting her…
