by Rhea Watson
The reaper shifted back and forth in her seat under the guise of making herself more comfortable, yet I knew it was just a distraction to hide her discomfort.
From me.
Possibly even from herself.
She offered a half shrug, unzipping her purse and rooting around inside for fuck knows what—nothing, most likely.
“Because I’m dead,” Hazel said after the silence between us became positively excruciating.
It was the answer I’d expected.
But it felt wrong—just as wrong as it had felt that day, when I watched her reach out for passing children, weeping. No matter what she said, how vehemently she denied it, Hazel longed to be among them again. She craved humanity. While she took great pride in her profession, her dedication to reaping souls a beautiful thing, she carried with her a hollowness that nothing but humanity itself could fill.
And that pained me more than I would ever admit—to Knox, to Declan, even to myself.
Frowning, I snatched up her delicate wrist, holding it between us, right up for her to see as her weak pulse fluttered against my palm.
“You don’t feel dead,” I stressed. Cold, yes, her flesh a delectable contrast to the ever-present fire of a hellhound. But she ate and drank, laughed at Declan’s antics, sagged under Knox’s ire—she sang in the shower, the rare time she took one, her voice lovelier than any of her old records. Hazel was the furthest thing from dead I could ever imagine.
The auditorium lights flickered from bright to dim and back again, almost in time with her fluttering lashes as her gaze danced from my eyes to my lips, then to my hand snapped tight around her wrist. Hazel said nothing, but she didn’t need to; her eyes insisted that she didn’t believe me, that my words didn’t put so much as a dent in her opinion. When the lights dimmed once more, slowly this time, I released her, and by the time blackness blanketed the hall and the stage curtains peeled open, she had both hands in her lap—and mine buzzed from the cool caress of her skin and the slow, tender waltz of her heartbeat.
Not dead.
Not with a beating heart.
Shaking my head, I sat up straight with a sigh and focused on the opera. Stage lights burst to life just as the pit orchestra started, and soon enough I, like all present, was lost to the music, to the story.
Naturally, I didn’t understand a word of it, given the lyrics were in Italian—Hazel confirmed when I asked, her grasp of the European tongues shaky but passable. But an opera wasn’t about a literal understanding of the words, rather the feeling invoked by the players. The score plucked at my heartstrings immediately. The flare of the costumes caught my eye, the whirl of the dancers stirring the beast within as I tracked them across the stage as a hunter tracks its prey.
Set pieces moved fluidly through the scenes, from the political pleas in the senate to the secret rendezvous of lovers in a midnight garden. Armies marched. Dogs bayed—real dogs on spiked leashes. Women wailed. The human spectators applauded throughout the first act, with each brief closing of the curtain, with each trail of the orchestra…
Magical.
Simply magical.
Perhaps an hour in, I finally tore myself away to whisper about the male lead to Hazel, that his vibrato was the best I’d heard in all the videos I had watched in secret, late at night while the pack slept.
Only the praise died in my throat when I found her crying. Not overtly weeping, of course. With her chin on her fist, her elbow on the chair’s armrest, she consumed the dramatic rise and fall of the scene before us intently, tears streaking down both cheeks.
Perhaps I too had succumbed to the performance, suddenly drunk on the music, because I couldn’t abide the tears this time. Couldn’t ignore them as I had when I first stalked her through Lunadell. They elicited something foreign in me, a defensive rush for her well-being. I had never defended anyone but Declan. Hellhounds had been beaten before my eyes, killed in old kennels, and I’d felt nothing but relief that it wasn’t me.
But her sorrow touched me.
Tormented me.
Set my body aflame and threatened to burn me alive in this very seat.
I reached for her with a trembling hand, and she flinched when I brushed the backs of my knuckles down her cheek. Her tears left an unwelcome warmth across her flesh, marring the reaper’s usual chill. Hazel blinked back at me, then sniffled and let out a forced laugh.
“It’s nothing,” she insisted softly, despite the fact no one could hear us. Fuck, we could scream bloody murder and every soul here would be none the wiser. The reaper wiped at her face, removing all evidence of emotion—but her eyes shimmered in the stage lights, glossy and full.
It wasn’t nothing.
It had never been nothing.
Teeth gritted, I faced her in my seat, every part of me tight—which she must have mistaken for annoyance rather than a desire to right whatever plagued her, because she blanched and shot up, sniffling again as she tossed her gold clutch on the seat.
“Sorry, Gunnar, go back to the show,” she told me, an order that fell on deaf ears. “It’s the music… It makes me emotional, that’s all. It’s beautiful.”
It’s not the music. Slowly, I stood, easily matching and then exceeding her height, even in those tall shoes. The sorrow I saw in her, sensed in her, scented on her, came from a much deeper well than an appreciation for the opera.
“I hated seeing you cry that day,” I admitted hoarsely, honest with her for the first time. She slipped around the velvet-clad chairs, putting them between us with a frown. My feet longed to follow her, but I held my place—forced myself to be still, not to stalk or covet what I had denied myself for so long. “You cry too often, Hazel.”
She sucked in her cheeks. “That’s not true—”
“I hear it.” It pained me to remember, to conjure up memories of weeping through her bedroom door, sniffling outside the piano room, shuddering breaths even as she crafted delicious meals for us alone in the kitchen. “In the house, I hear it… Sometimes when the others are asleep. Sometimes not. I hear you.”
“I… It’s not…” Lacking a clutch to fidget with, she went for her hair, mussing it rather than fixing it. Strands of white licked down her neck as she scrambled for a response. “I don’t know what you think you hear, but it’s not me. Reapers don’t weep. I don’t… You’re wrong.”
She ducked away before I could unleash the argument to prove that I was right. Darting around the posted sign, Hazel vanished into the dimly lit corridor outside our viewing balcony, and this time I moved, stalking after her swiftly and surely. In those heels, in that dress, she couldn’t evade me for long, one of my steps accounting for three of hers. My gaze blazed down her figure, from the top of her frayed white knot to the dip between her shoulders, down to the shapely full moon of her ass.
You can’t run from me, reaper.
She made it two balconies to the left of ours, following the curve of the hallway, headed—well, who knows where. Away. Away from my accusations, away from me. I caught her by the elbow before she took another step, my grip as firm as the clench of my jaw. Without her scythe, the reaper was certainly more… malleable.
Hazel let out a protesting gasp when I thrust her back into the wall, against the gold wainscoting that met tawdry red wallpaper. Her head collided against the wood, her shoulders, her hips, jostling her as I boxed her in, easily trapping her in place.
Only I had no plan from there. Grabbing her had been an impulse, a rare and fanciful moment in a life of patience and planning. Hazel tipped her head back to glare at me through watery eyes, the black shadows around her brown orbs purposeful—makeup that shimmered and glistened like her tears. The muscles along my jaw ached from the grit of my teeth, and I brought my thumbs to her cheeks, unsure of what I was doing until they made contact with her flesh.
Until they wiped her tears away. Not gently either. Aggressively, like I was determined to never see them again.
I hated them, those blasted drops. Hated what t
hey meant, hated the sorrow they wrought within me.
“I know how it feels,” I growled, bearing down when she clutched at my wrists and yanked hard, attempting to pull me away, to free herself from this cage. Something dangerous flashed in her eyes when her efforts did nothing—nothing but bring us closer.
And for once, I didn’t run. Now that I’d touched her, tasted this intimacy like one sipped a fine wine, I couldn’t stop. Needed more. More. My hips found hers when she tried to push off the wall, forcing her back, and before either of us knew it, my hand pressed to the hollow of her throat. I swallowed thickly, fingertips digging in right above her sharp collarbone. “I know how it feels… to be so desperately alone.”
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…”
His large hands slid across the wall, silencing what would have been breathless stammering on my part, and a chill raced down my spine when those hands found my hair. Goose bumps rippled across the sensitive skin of my neck, every sense heightened as one of his hands closed roughly around the bun I had taken great pains to perfect earlier, following a popular blogger’s video tutorial so I could be modern yet classic for the night.
From the look in his eyes, the way his mouth lifted in a snarl, I still couldn’t tell if he liked the updo, if my efforts mattered—not until he snaked his arm around my waist and dragged me into another kiss. His hand clawed at my hair when I gasped, sucking down his scent, my parted lips an open invitation for his tongue. Hot and curious, it explored my mouth, tangled with mine, claimed parts of me no one but Declan ever had before. The butterflies in my belly turned into a swarm of bees, buzzing and violent, dangerous in their numbers, and the rapid thrum of their wings skittered through my veins when Gunnar hoisted me completely off the ground. He slammed me into the wall, his hand tearing from my hair and skimming roughly down my body to my thighs, where he ripped at my gown, at the snug sequined fabric I’d thought was just too much for tonight.
Perhaps he thought the same—from the way he tried to tear it off, clawing through the sequins like a beast, not a man.
And that ferocity thrilled me.
Gunnar growled harshly into my mouth, his other hand also darting down to my leg, both ripping at the fitted material as our lips clashed, almost fighting one another for control. The kiss was so different from Declan—both steeped in passion, yes, but there was a fiery resistance here too, like he didn’t want to kiss me but also couldn’t stop.
Like he’d die if he stopped.
A familiar feeling, one that blazed furiously in my chest, between my thighs.
Something tore, rigid fabric finally giving way to raw hellhound fury when he finally wrenched my dress up my bare legs.
I hadn’t worn panties since I’d returned to Earth to reap; back then, I’d thought no one would see, so why bother with the annoyance? A bra had become a necessity when I realized men—reapers, demons, souls—liked to watch my breasts bounce with every step. This dress had one built-in, cupping my chest brilliantly, crafting the perfect cleavage. But down below…
There was nothing there to stop him from—
Gunnar groaned when his fingers glided up my thighs and found nothing but me waiting for him. His knee shoved roughly between mine, forcing me open, and I snapped at his lip in response, earning another guttural sound that rumbled exquisitely in his chest.
He certainly wasn’t shy in his explorations, not bothering to slow the kiss, to ask permission before his fingers smoothed between my slit. His whole body jerked when he found me wet, desire for him hot and heavy, and my back arched as those curious yet firm fingers stroked my sex, smearing the arousal onto my thighs—like he needed me to know.
Maybe with good reason.
Because I hadn’t realized I… wanted him so badly.
All of them.
Sure, my pack was exquisite in every sense of the word. Not only were they intelligent and strong, witty and thoughtful in their own ways, but each one was positively mouthwatering. Gorgeous. Worthy of the attentions of G
reek sculptors.
But I’d kept my distance, shoved aside my interest, forced myself to remain professional as I showed them the ropes of reaping.
Only this felt so… so…
Right. Gunnar brutalizing my mouth, caressing my most sensitive skin with those long, luxurious fingers…
It felt right.
As right as it had felt with Declan.
Which should make it—wrong?
While it might have been the norm for hellhounds to share a mate within their pack, it certainly wasn’t how humans operated.
Only I wasn’t human.
I was—
“Gunnar!” I gasped into his mouth when he thrust two fingers into me, rough and unhindered, my body taking him like it was welcoming him home. Still, it was a tight fit, and I parted my trembling thighs farther, twisting my hands into his hair with a moan as he harshly pumped in and out of me. He broke the kiss at long last, but only to drag his mouth along my jaw, to tease my neck with teeth and tongue as he pressed ever closer, threatening to smother me—if I were a lesser being.
But I could take it.
I could withstand him—them.
A domed alabaster ceiling greeted me when my eyes fluttered open, the sight reminding me, briefly, where we were, even on the celestial plane. As Gunnar ravished me with his mouth, his fingers, the hairs on the back of my neck stood on end—like someone was watching me. Again. But Knox and I had dispensed with that rogue spirit, so maybe it was just my own conscience suddenly aware of what I had willingly gotten myself into.
Again.
My hands left his soft dark curls, easing down to cup his face. “Gunnar—”
“Need you, Hazel,” he snarled back, that ferocious tone shooing away my reluctance, quieting my conscience. Because I needed him too. Now. It pounded through me like a hurricane, fire snapping in my belly, my mind hazy with desire and my hands wandering with a mind of their own. Touching. Exploring. Claiming—roughly, my nails in play as they ripped over the suit I’d stolen for him, marked up the back of his neck so that he hissed and finger-fucked me harder.