Page 34 of Reaper's Pack

It was, of course, but if we played our hand properly, we could all part ways unscathed. That was the difference here, and that technicality mattered.

“You don’t know.” I leaned forward. “But you have all the power—don’t forget that. We outnumber you, yes, but we can never seriously hurt you.” A nod to her scythe had her clutching at it again. “And that can kill us in an instant. I assure you, we are painfully aware of that.”

So, really, what other option had we? The honey approach was our best bet—the one chance to claim what I had always wanted for my pack. We just needed to get on with it before Hazel’s lure over Gunnar and Declan—and me—fucked everything straight to hell.

Hazel finally slumped into her chair, prim posture forgotten, nibbling on her lower lip for a moment and drumming her fingers on her scythe’s staff.

“If we don’t pass the trials at the end of October, you all have to go back to Fenix,” she said sullenly. “I’ll have to get a new pack and start over again… Or they’ll reassign me to a smaller city. Either way, it’s not what any of us want. I know… I know you don’t want to go back, and you should know that I take this, this promotion very seriously.”

Fear and fury collided along the pack bond from all three of us at the mention of a return to Fenix. It was another obstacle of the distant future: if Hazel did let us go of her own volition, putting our freedom over her ambition, would we be hunted down? Dragged back to Hell? Whipped and beaten—even killed?

Knowing and understanding the landscape of the mortal realm, every facet of it, was paramount.

“Yes, well, then we had better finally do something,” I growled, unable to shake my rage at the thought of Fenix getting his hands on Declan and Gunnar again—taking them away from me, throwing them into packs who could kill them because of what they were: different, special, unique. With a deep breath, I finally caught Hazel’s eye, holding it with an intensity that made her shiver. “Join the pack, Hazel, or send us back. In the end, the choice is yours.”

I filled my plate in the silence that followed, using the giant serving spoon for the mash and the garlicky green beans. The others followed suit, taking only after I’d had my fill. A carving knife sat next to the whole pheasant, the bird roasted and basted, glistening with salty, crackly flesh. I ripped into it with my hands, taking the largest portion for myself before depositing cuts of cooked, steaming meat onto Gunnar’s plate, then Declan’s. The youngest among us saw to the bread, snagging three buns and doling them out, his head bowed and his gaze apologetic when it briefly met mine.

He knew he’d fucked up.

And I knew he would do it again for her.

The way they looked at each other across the table—it was inevitable. An unwelcome flash of jealousy prickled in my core, not because of how they looked at each other, but, perhaps, for the fact that they already had a bond. A silent conversation flowed between them, effortless, obvious.

Deep down, I’d always craved a mate, someone bonded to me, to my pack, and vice versa. I would die for Declan and Gunnar, but I would suffer an eternity of unspeakable agony for my mate.

Only I’d accepted long ago that in my position, an alpha without a pack, then an alpha of a pack of misfits, that a mate was simply out of the question. That bond would forever be implausible for a hound like me.

To see it playing out in front of me now—connection…

Rolling my shoulders back, I ripped into my pheasant with a snarl, and the others hastily did the same, sensing my frustration within our bond.

“Okay.”

We all stilled. Such a little word, said in such a little voice, somehow flooded through the room like a tidal wave. I lowered my greasy hands to the table and swallowed my mouthful of pheasant. Delicious, delicious pheasant.

“Okay?” I repeated gruffly. Shock plucked at our pack bond, shock mingled with relief and fear and exhilaration.

“We can… try it,” Hazel said slowly, like she was working out every word as it came to the surface. “We’ll do our regular training still, and I’ll take you each out separately. But any issues and it’s done. Do I make myself clear?”

“Crystal,” Gunnar crooned, a familiar smirk teasing his lips. Hazel merely stared back at his wolfish expression, not blushing, not stammering as she usually did, and my beta’s deflation reverberated through the bond.

Without another word, Hazel nodded and stood, then swept out of the room in a hurry. Declan downed his entire glass of wine in a single gulp. Gunnar poked at his green beans with a scowl.

And I savored our victory.

A victory that didn’t feel nearly as powerful as I’d anticipated.

In fact, just like when I had learned all the new information about our reaper, about her tearful excursions into the human world, this felt… hollow.

A pyrrhic victory.

We resumed our meal in silence, the unease of her departure entrenched deep in our bond, hovering over us throughout supper and long into the night. The only way I could get a wink of sleep was to remind myself that this was a necessary evil—that in freedom, there was suffering.

And if there was one thing this pack understood better than most, it was how to endure suffering.

How to fight through the pain.

No matter the cause.

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