Page 71 of Reaper's Pack

Whether we was me and the pack or someone actually sanctioned to tackle this kind of thing was a different issue. I had zero experience with another celestial being stealing souls, but suspected it was something for Heaven to handle. They had the resources, after all, and a whole arsenal of bored angels just chomping at the bit for a good hunt. Once we had reaped the final soul from the collapsed tower, I’d be headed upstairs—twice in less than twenty-four hours, at that—to file an official report.

A brief silence blanketed the alley, and before I knew it, my hand had slid down his forearm, over his wrist…

And then his fingers tangled with mine, loosely threaded together.

“How are Declan and Gunnar doing?” Knox asked as we both studied the sudden turn of events, neither of us pulling away.

“Great. Perfect, actually,” I told him. “You’re all naturals at this.”

Knox scoffed, his hand more open than mine, so big and firm, like he was scared he’d crush me if he squeezed back.

“You’re a protector, Knox.” My skin was so pale next to his, so deathly white, faint gold veins a stark contrast to the deep blue wisps weaving along his arm. “You had a moment last night, and you learned. We both did. And now it’s done.”

Shattering glass and screeching tires punctured the silence, and we broke apart in unison. My hand wrapped around yew. His fell to his side, tensed, as if purposefully stretched open. I swallowed hard, then nodded toward the street.

“Come on. Twenty-seven souls to go before we can call it a day.”

I’d just crossed onto the sidewalk when he called my name.

“I am sorry,” Knox said, lingering right where I’d left him when I looked back, “for the position I put you in at that house. It won’t happen again.”

A flush warmed my cheeks. “Forgiven.”

Together, we hurried back to the carnage, more souls in need of our care—and a mystery gnawing at my insides, the fear in that kidnapped soul’s eyes threatening to haunt me for the rest of my days.

21

Declan

The pack stilled at the sound of the front door gently shutting downstairs. Scattered across Knox’s bedroom, the three of us looked to the doorless opening. Hazel had been gone for most of the day; after we had cleared the crumbling skyscraper of all its departed souls, she dropped us off here, then vanished. Knox had been the one to fill us in on what they’d seen—on that fucked-up creature who had stolen one of our souls.

She had gone to Heaven to make a report, apparently, and now, almost nine hours later, she had finally returned, the sweet little tip-tap of her flats echoing through the house. Weeks ago, she would have left us to our own devices after our evening meal, but none of us had eaten, the pantry untouched in her absence. Dread frayed at the pack bond for hours, and now, as her scent thickened in the air, her footsteps grew louder, relief flooded my connection with Gunnar and Knox instead—from all sides. Relief, excitement, worry.

Because something foul was wandering the celestial plane. Hazel had sensed it for weeks, all the way back to my training at the children’s hospital. She had chalked it up to that rogue spirit, but from what Knox had described, the bloody beast today was much, much worse.

And the thought of her, out there, alone, had us all on edge.

Never mind that she had her scythe. Never mind that she was an immortal being, celestial, divine in her own right. The three of us fretted over her like she was made of glass—and that was fucking telling.

Gunnar and I knew it: Hazel was our fated mate—we three were destined to find her, claim her, love her. The physical intimacy shared between us and Hazel had sealed it. At this point, we were just waiting for our alpha to stop being a stubborn ass and get with the program already.

Knox shot to his feet as soon as Hazel appeared in the doorway, and concern pounded through our pack bond at the state of her. She had never looked so exhausted, dark rings around her eyes, her hair staticky and wild. Traveling up to Heaven seemed to take a greater toll on her than the usual teleporting, and she had done it twice now in less than two days.

Leaning heavily on her scythe, she shuffled into the room with a sigh, and before anyone could tell me otherwise, I was at her side, an arm around her waist.

“Are you all right?”

She nodded, stabbing the end of her scythe to the floor so that it could stand tall and proud without her. “Just tired.”

A low throb of longing rippled through the pack bond, and Gunnar and I did our best not to look at its source. Even though we had both tasted Hazel, caressed her bountiful curves, kissed down to her marrow, there wasn’t even a whiff of jealousy between us. That was the way with bonded hellhound packs like we three—or so I had always been told. I’d never been fortunate enough to have a mate for myself, but now I finally understood why: fate had been holding off until I met the reaper nestled to my side.

Gunnar had proven to be less physically affectionate than me, preferring to verbally spar, his tone snarky but flirtatious. The only one still desperately craving her—and fighting it hard—was Knox.

“What did they have to say?” our alpha demanded as I walked Hazel to his bed. For the first time since we had mated, she let me hold her, as if just too wiped out to fight it anymore. While her reluctance hurt, I understood it: humans didn’t share mates, and she was sensitive to both my and Gunnar’s feelings. It was all unnecessary, of course. There was no bad blood between him and I, no tension, no competition. Innately, we each understood how the other responded to our mate, how we longed to care for her.

Hazel just needed time to accept it.

Seated on the end of his bed, she rubbed at her cheek and shook her head. “They think it was most likely a demon, even without the blood being black.”

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