Page 38 of Reaper's Pack

I whirled around at the girlish squeal; the youngest of the three children peeled away from the rest, perhaps only four or five years old, and ran as fast as her tiny legs could carry her in Declan’s direction, arms outstretched, greedy little fingers reaching for him. Her older brothers raced after her in her adorable pink overalls, all three sporting the same mop of chocolate-brown hair and near-identical green eyes, their cheeks sun kissed and alive.

The oldest caught his sister around the waist, scooping her up as she squeal-giggled in his arms, while the shorter of the two carried on a few paces toward Declan and me. Stiff as a board, the hellhound watched the trio unblinkingly, his fur rustling in the wind, his huge paws buried in the sand.

“Sorry,” the eldest said when he looked up at me, his tone sheepish. “She really likes dogs.”

“Can we pet him?” the next in line asked, lacking his brother’s awareness of us—strangers at the beach, dressed a little differently from all the other adults, the dog by my side absolutely massive.

I’d never pet any of my hellhounds before—not in the way that these three intended. Tossing my braid over my shoulder, I opened and closed my mouth a few times, unsure if it was offensive to a hellhound’s sensibilities to be fawned over like any regular dog. “Well, he—”

Declan answered for me, coming back to life suddenly, the bounce in his step even flouncier as he trotted halfway to the trio and plopped down in the sand. Even sitting, he towered over them, and as the middle boy cautiously approached, he dropped into a lie-down to even the playing field.

“I think that’s a yes,” I told them with a laugh, heart positively bursting at the sight. Declan had a soft spot for children—I’d thought so during his first field test, and his eagerness now to accommodate them without my asking only confirmed that suspicion. Tail sweeping across the sand, he even rolled onto his side when the littlest one approached so she could aggressively rub at his belly.

The eldest brother hung back after a few head pats, watching his siblings with eagle eyes as they stroked and scratched this strange, huge black dog. In a way, he reminded me of Knox: oldest, largest, concerned for the well-being of those in his charge.

I blinked rapidly, a rush of insight into Knox’s character hitting me hard and fast.

Anyway.

This wasn’t about my most standoffish hellhound—this was about Declan and how fucking amazing he was in every possible way.

“Does he want to play fetch?” the younger brother asked, eyes alight at the thought. He shot off before I could answer, and I was torn between telling him no, it was fine, and insisting that the little sweetheart in pink overalls not pull on Declan’s ears like that. Not that it seemed to bother him, his tail still thumping contentedly against the sand.

The boy returned a few beats later, kicking up dust with every stride, a stick in hand. Slightly winded, he waved the thin bit of driftwood in Declan’s face, then threw it with all his might. It sailed a respectable distance before plunking down on the beach. All eyes turned expectantly to Declan, the littlest one shrieking with giggles again. Declan’s tail slowed, and he looked back at me, uncertainty in his reddish-brown gaze.

“Go get the stick, Declan,” I told him, wincing at the slight baby-talk tone I adopted—like I was talking to a real dog. “Get the stick and bring it back! Good boy!”

The kids retreated when Declan stood, the eldest barely coming up to his head, but the apprehension disappeared when he gave a gleeful bark and trotted across the beach. I bit back a smile when he scooped up the stick and carried it over to us—because he would have had to be so gentle to hold the driftwood in his powerful jaws without snapping it like a twig.

My gentle boy.

My perfect hellhound.

He dropped the stick at the boy’s feet, then bounced backward in a play posture, whining low and making a big show of watching the stick when the boy picked it up and threw it again. Then he was off, whipping across the sand and making the kids laugh when he did a dramatic dive, head over heels, to claim his prize.

This so wouldn’t have happened with Gunnar and Knox, but Declan’s playful personality, his shaggy look, his sudden hyperawareness of his massive form made him just right.

Across the beach, a man stood and plopped his sunglasses on his head, a hand over his eyes as he looked and looked and looked—until he found us. The kids didn’t seem to notice their father searching for them, but I waved and he waved back. Even all the way over here, I caught the flash of his teeth as he smiled; then, as if knowing his kids were safe, he turned his folding chair in our direction and settled into it to watch after his brood, his wife dozing on the blanket beside him.

A deep, visceral pang of longing throbbed in my gut, and I crossed my arms, holding myself in a solo hug like that would push back the deep-seated loneliness inside. Because I so wanted what that man had—a partner, a gaggle of relatively well-behaved kids, a Sunday beach day beneath a gorgeous sky.

Normalcy.

I loved my life as a reaper—loved all that it stood for, loved the gravity of the role I now played in the universe. After death, I’d been restless in Heaven, unable to find peace, always searching for something more.

It wasn’t until I returned to Earth that I realized I was restless for life—for what that man had.

That was why I went into Lunadell each morning.

Even if all I could do was watch, play the shadowy spectator beyond the veil, at least I had a taste of normal again—just for a moment. Fleetingly, I could pretend that I was dropping off my children at school, meeting a friend for coffee, taking my dog to the park.

Toeing at the sand, I shook my head. Stop it, Hazel. I might have missed a normal human existence, but my life had so much more meaning to it now.

And in the end, that was what mattered.

Training my hellhounds mattered.

Shepherding souls mattered.

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