Page 47 of The Reaper's Vow
“My father sent me away to learn discipline,” he growls, pacing now, a caged predator with nowhere to run. “To learn the consequences of putting personal desires above pack duty.”
“And what was your personal desire that day? To give your sister a moment of freedom?”
He stops pacing, his back to me, shoulders rigid. “She begged me. Said she just wanted to feel normal for once. Just twenty minutes of being a regular girl, not the alpha's daughter.”
I approach him slowly, careful not to startle. “That sounds like compassion to me, not failure.”
“Compassion gets wolves killed.” He turns to face me, his expression hardened again. “My father made that perfectly clear.”
“Is that why you became the Reaper? To prove you could be ruthless enough?”
“I became the Reaper because it was the role Anselm needed filled. The role my father assigned me.”
“The role, or the punishment?”
“Does it matter?” He shrugs, but the casualness is forced. “I'm good at it.”
“Too good at it. That's what scares you.”
“You think you've got me all figured out after one day?”
“I think I'm starting to.” I reach out, hesitating before my fingers make contact with his arm. When he doesn't pull away, I let my palm rest against his bicep. “I think you're terrified that you've become exactly what your father wanted—a weapon. The Reaper.”
“You don't know what I am.”
“Then tell me.” I move my hand up to his shoulder, then to his face, cupping his jaw. The stubble there is rough against my palm, and I feel him tense at the contact before leaning into it slightly. “Tell me who Damien Marek is when he's not being the Reaper.”
He laughs, the sound hollow, brittle, without warmth. “I don’t think I remember anymore.”
“I don’t believe that.”
“Believe what you want.” The dismissal cuts, but there’s something in the way his shoulders tense—something raw he can’t quite cover—that makes me press harder.
“Ask me something else,” he says abruptly, folding his arms tight across his chest like a shield.
I bite my lip, weighing my options. There’s one question that’s been burning since breakfast.
“Tell me about the DeLupo girl,” I say carefully. “The one Anselm mentioned. The one your father picked for you.”
Damien goes still, the shift in his expression subtle but unmistakable. His jaw locks, a muscle ticking there, and though he schools his features into indifference, I catch the flicker of surprise before the mask settles into place.
“Selena DeLupo,” he says, the name falling from his lips with practiced ease. “Daughter of the Oregon Alpha. Twenty-four. Born wolf. Trained from birth to be a Luna.”
“That's her résumé,” I point out. “Not who she is.”
He shrugs. “I've met her exactly three times. Formal pack functions. We exchanged maybe fifty words total.”
“But your father arranged the match for you?”
“Not exactly arranged. More like...strongly encouraged.” His jaw tightens. “The DeLupo pack rules significant territory in the Pacific Northwest. An alliance through mating would double our combined influence.”
I swallow hard, trying to ignore the knot forming in my stomach. “And now? Am I stepping on her toes if I accept our mating?”
A muscle in his jaw jumps, and he looks away. “The arrangement was never formalized. No contracts signed, no ceremonies planned. Just...expectations.”
“That's not what I asked.” I step closer. “Does it ruin her chances at finding someone else?”
“Selena will have no shortage of suitors,” he says flatly. “She's what every pack wants for their Luna.”
