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“I’m told my serviceswon’tbe needed for the wedding itself, so I wanted to take just a few moments to talk about love,” I say. “Yeah, call me sappy, but this legitimately used to be a part of my job.”
Tilda smiles.
Something in me trembles. Snaps.
“I try to take it easy on the Bible quotes,” I continue, “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.’ In the past, this was often applied to divorce, and I can see where that logic lies, but…I’m starting to see it differently.”
I swallow hard, fidgeting with the corner of the paper. My fingers curl around the edge of the music stand until the old metal bites into my palms, and Tilda’s green eyes bore into me.
“It’s hard not to think about this in terms of the way our instincts lock into place when we meet the person we’re meant to be with,” I say. “Somehow, against the odds, Charlotte and Elijah found each other—and maybe it’s fate, maybe it’s God, maybe it’s something else, but I truly believe there’s something divine about that. All this is to say that…you’ll probably have more fun listening to Peaches give her speech at the wedding.”
A few people chuckle, though I’m not sure if it’s for my benefit or because they actually think I’m funny.
But Tilda’s gone pale and solemn, her red lips parted as she watches me.
“Now, on to announcements…”
?
Breakfast is wrung with tension, Tilda sitting at a different table. I didn’t write all that for her, but I’m starting to see how she may have interpreted it…and I don’t know how she’ll react. She’s smart, and I’m certain she’s already started to figure out the truth: that she isn’t just a woman I decided to save.
She’s my mate.
Fate brought us together, just like it did Charlotte and Elijah. I know I should have told her a long time ago, but it isn’t like I can act on it. Tilda has to leave by the full moon, otherwise I won’t be able to resist her as my wolf takes control.
I scan the room for her as people start to leave, finding her lingering at the threshold to the kitchen with her back to me. I think she must be talking to Peaches and Mateo while they clean up. She keeps glancing over her shoulder, her eyes finding me as the others clear out.
It’s time to talk to her about this.
I stand and walk toward her, dreading how she’s going to react. She meets my gaze and bids the others goodbye, and meets me halfway through the visitor center.
“Can we talk?” she asks, crossing her arms over her chest. She’s dressed in a little green sundress, her long legs showing, the red scar winding its way over her pale flesh. I’m certain there’s a story behind that scar, and I want to kiss my way along it until I’ve learned all her secrets…
“Of course,” I say. “Walk?”
Tilda nods, and I walk with her out the front door of the visitor center and onto the porch. We take the three stairs down into the grass, and head toward the garden plot, where a few seedlings have burst out of the soil. The late August sun is shining bright above, summer’s last heat wave warming my skin until I feel beads of sweat trickling underneath my collar.
She looks beautiful in this light. In the unfiltered sunshine.
“It was a nice speech,” Tilda says quietly. “I’m surprised they didn’t want you for the wedding.”
“Not a lot of religious folks around here,” I say. “I try to keep it light, but they wanted their friend to do it.”
“And Charlotte said you’ll be walking her down the aisle?”
“Yes.” I smile, a twist of pain in my chest. “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.
We both go silent, walking past the garden plot and around the edges of the den. The cliffs are big and rolling here, large rocks covering the cavern. There’s an old road that winds away from the den, a rusted out sign readingInner Space Cavernshanging from a post.
Reminders of what once was, scars on the world.
“That’s not what you wanted to talk about,” I murmur.
We pause beside a tree, Tilda leaning against the trunk. A mockingbird sings in a live oak overhead, winding branches filtering the sun in a mosaic of gold across Tilda’s face.
“It’s not,” she says. “I…”
