Page 54 of Reaper's Pack

The sentiment was an unwelcome one, yet the words flowed from my lips like a pounding waterfall. Nothing could stop them. Not her scent. Not the quiver of her chin. Not the tears clinging to her lashes like diamonds.

“And now you’ve found us,” I hissed, her body so small against mine—so small, yet so firm. Not dead. Definitely not dead. Heat soared in my core when she squirmed, her hands to my chest now, pushing, pushing, pushing. “And you want us so you don’t have to be alone anymore, yet we fight you every step of the way. We snap and growl, bully our way through forced conversations, and still you fight.” For companionship. For family, maybe. For a pack of her own. A lump settled in my throat, hot and heavy as the need brewing in my chest. I traced a line up her neck, and my thumb brushed the tip of her pointed chin. “Stubborn thing you are, reaper.”

She shook violently now, as though touched by Death’s hand all over again, but Hazel never once tore her eyes from mine. An unflinching stare from someone outside of the pack usually indicated the start of a fight—unless the lesser party blinked, looked away, bowed their head.

Neither of us blinked.

Music swelled within the auditorium, the desperate cries of the lovers rising with it, and I wrenched my hand from her throat, trembling a little myself. My palms flattened to the wall on either side of her head, and I waited with bated breath for a response.

But she gave me nothing.

Hazel wouldn’t engage in this, wouldn’t acknowledge how her body had arched off the wall ever so slightly to press up against mine. I exhaled a strained breath.

“The music is beautiful, isn’t it?”

What else could I say? I’d given her a piece of myself, acted impulsively, without care, for the first time in years, and for what?

Hazel’s hands tightened, suddenly twisting the fabric of my suit jacket, as she rose up on her toes, our eyes locked—and kissed me.

17

Hazel

Don’t kiss him, you fool.

As a human, I had never just kissed someone, on a whim, with no forethought.

As a reaper, I had never kissed anyone at all—until Declan.

And we had done far, far more than kiss.

Which was precisely why I shouldn’t have kissed Gunnar—shouldn’t have stood up on my tiptoes, my feet aching in uncomfortably high heels, and most definitely shouldn’t have yanked him down by his black suit lapels so that our mouths collided, stiff and firm. He exhaled a sharp breath against my cheek, his royal blues wide with shock, and I hadn’t the gall to look away, so I stared straight into them, dragging out our closed-lipped kiss for as long as I dared.

His mouth was always so thin, twisted into a sardonic smile or a patronizing smirk.

I hadn’t expected the softness of his lips, the way they molded so perfectly to mine despite the rigidity between us.

Pull away. It hasn’t been that long. He’s not kissing you back. You can pretend it never happened.

Just a peck. I could excuse a peck—forget a peck.

I couldn’t forget the raw, masculine scent that flooded over me at his nearness, like he had doused himself in some heady cologne that modern men wore for their women. Spicy and woodsy, capable of making any girl swoon.

Only this wasn’t cologne. That smell was Gunnar, pure and untainted, and it just… He…

Blinking rapidly, my entire face ignited as I ripped myself away, dropping back onto my too-high heels and hastily withdrawing my hands from his jacket. The opera carried on without us, Dontario and Isabella bleating sweetly for one another even as their warring families threatened to destroy their love, and I hastily racked my fuzzy brain for some sort of explanation.

His words had moved me.

Yes, all that about being lonely—about hearing me cry… Gunnar had, you know, touched me, and in a moment of weakness, I had decided to touch him.

How humiliating.

He’d never let me live this down.

Something else for him and Knox to exploit.

“I…”

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