Page 61 of Reaper's Pack

I snorted and stole his latte for myself, which he surrendered a little too easily.

“Come on,” I said with a nod toward the path. “It’s after noon… I’ll buy you a whiskey instead.”

Shaded by the rustling canopy, Knox turned away from the whirling dervishes on the jungle gym, shadows playing across his features. “If you really want to hear my story, you’d better make it at least a double.”

I tossed my empty latte cup into a garbage can with a grin. “Deal…”

19

Knox

The Hazel of tonight was a far cry from the reaper of Sunday afternoon—the one who wore me down with words at the park, with but a simple touch of her hand to my wrist, and who had listened diligently to my life story at the bar after.

Back then, she had been a feminine thing, so soft and nurturing. Attentive. Kind. And not just with her words, but with her eyes too. I’d finally vomited up my depressing story onto the table between us, a tale that was nothing more than a series of failings and rejections, bounced from one pack to another until finally Fenix put me in a kennel alone with countless beatings along the way, and Hazel had simply listened. No pity. No judgment. She had just listened and kept my whiskey topped up, nodding here and there, smiling when appropriate, scowling the rest of the time.

That day, Hazel had been all that I’d needed her to be.

Something had shifted between us—even if my primary goal of freedom for the pack remained. Battling the rogue spirit together had changed the air around her and me, but talking, really letting it out, had made a world of difference.

Tonight, however, she was a new creature altogether.

Still feminine, yes, even with her shapeless black robe billowing around her, only hinting at the beautiful curves beneath. Compared to we three males, Hazel always possessed a womanly way about her that I had come to admire. But tonight, she was fierce too. Two sides of one coin, her many facets a secret pleasure to unravel. Strong, confident, focused, she strode along the quiet suburban sidewalk with a deep sense of purpose, the arched blade of her scythe glinting in the passing streetlamps.

I trotted behind her, in no hurry but not dawdling either. Gunnar and Declan had already reaped their first soul—and neither had shut up about it since. Supposedly it was a life-changing moment, that first reap, and a little tingle of excitement buzzed in my chest at the thought of finally experiencing it for myself.

And alongside this Hazel, at that. Stoic, determined, she looked every inch a warrior as we strode through the celestial plane. Quiet human houses passed by in my peripheral, single-level bungalows that had seen better days. Every so often, a car rumbled down the nearby streets. Suburban sprawl, Gunnar had dubbed it as we’d sat around the laptop, admiring the satellite photos of the neighborhood after Hazel had given us an address.

She hadn’t done so for the others—told them in advance where they were headed. While I’d no clue what type of soul awaited me at 786 Clemments Street, Hazel had at least shared the location with all of us beforehand. Seated on the couch in one of the studies, sandwiched between Gunnar and Declan while I’d prowled about behind, she had typed in the address when prompted by my beta, my pack taking great interest in tonight’s destination.

Two brief days had passed since our afternoon at the park, our evening at the bar. We hadn’t fucked, nowhere close to it, and yet the atmosphere inside our territory had also changed. For the better, Declan had mused, the young hellhound thrilled that we were all suddenly getting along. Hazel had been quiet these last two days—quiet but present, smiling more yet shy when the weight of the whole pack’s attention settled on her.

But confident now.

Self-possessed tonight.

Utterly in her element.

It was a breathtaking sight. She had never looked more tempting, even with her back to me—especially with her back to me.

Perhaps this was why the others had enjoyed reaping so much. Maybe it wasn’t the souls at all, but the surefooted stride of the reaper who had bewitched us from the moment we first set eyes on her.

Those online relationship articles had gotten one thing right: confidence was sexy as fuck.

We finally stopped at a house that looked like all the rest, the walls dark grey, the roof shingles black and gleaming from a recent downpour. A small vehicle sat on the cracked driveway. The grass, I noted, was far greener than the lawns on either side of the property, and the garden had been tended to by a loving hand, landscaped and prim. A red front door. A metal letterbox with newspapers sticking out its top. Ordinary.

“This is going to be a tense situation,” Hazel said, the octave of her voice slightly different from her usual sweetness. Here, it carried the gravity of our task, and I jogged to her side, claws scratching across the sidewalk, and plopped down to observe. She gripped her scythe loosely, arm hanging between us, until the air exploded with the arrival of a new soul.

I stiffened, assaulted by the staticky surge humming within the celestial plane, deep and resonate, its vibrations rattling in my bones. Out of the corner of my eye, Hazel’s hand coiled tightly around her yew staff, and she shouldered her scythe with a resigned sigh.

“You have to do what I say in there, Knox.”

Faintly, over the explosive energy of the new soul and Hazel’s calm but firm tone, I heard a man sobbing inside the house. Swearing too, using words that made some humans blush. My gaze shot to the door, up the steps and across the little wood porch. Let me in. Let me see. All that I was as an alpha came to the forefront, but just as I lurched forward, body primed for conflict, for action, Hazel stepped in front of me.

“She needs you,” the reaper insisted, our eyes locked. “Comfort her. Protect her. She’s terrified.”

While I took in the words, I still found myself peering around Hazel at the house’s front door. Need to get in. Need to assess.

“Knox, do you understand?”

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