by Rhea Watson
Overwhelming me.
Making me weak when they needed me to be strong.
The demon opened the third and final crate without any great fanfare, stepping aside with the buzzing prod in hand as the Doberman hellhound sauntered out. Casual. Calm. Collected. Calculated. He crossed to his companions without so much as a snarl or a raised lip, but those red eyes oozed intelligence, drinking in every little detail of the room—every little detail of me.
Heat bloomed in my chest, and still I struggled for control. This had gotten away from me; already I was failing.
“Come here, you shits,” Fenix grumbled, vanishing from sight one moment, then materializing next to my pack the next. The alpha hellhound snapped his enormous jaws at him, but Fenix had speed and finesse on his side. Deft fingers found the golden collars around their necks, and he tore them off without bothering to undo them, the inverted spikes ripping into throats and painting my dusty floors red.
“Stop!” I shouted, rushing forward, scythe at the ready as cold fear washed over me. “Don’t do that to them—”
“They’ll heal,” Fenix told me as he backpedaled from a snarling alpha, a deathly quiet beta, a cowering runt. He hoisted the cattle prod, creating a five-foot barrier between them, the sparks at the end sizzling out a warning. Black demonic eyes slid my way, paired with a smirking mouth that would probably melt an unsuspecting human. “That’s sort of the point of breeding them with shifters… They’re virtually indestructible.”
Bright red splattered the off-white tile, jarring in its vibrancy. Reapers were there when a human died, and oftentimes death was bloody. But I bled gold. Demons bled black. It had been a very, very long time since red had any sway over me, but my God, it did now. Unshed tears stung my eyes as I looked to my pack, searching for injuries and finding nothing but black fur tinged with blood, the flesh underneath healed over, something so superficial unlikely to scar.
Yet how many scars were on the inside? Born and bred in Hell, housed in dank kennels, reared by a hand like Fenix’s—would these three ever be whole?
Probably not.
And the realization made me ache.
“Shift,” Fenix barked. When nothing happened, the air still and hot and brimming with years of hate, the demon stalked forward and thrust the prod hard into the alpha’s side. My chest tightened, and a charged energy coursed through every inch of me at the electric shock blistering against the hellhound’s flesh; the alpha endured it without a sound, like he had done so a thousand times before. Still as a mountain, he stood over his cowering packmate and stared Fenix down, as if daring him to do it again.
And he did.
Only this time, the demon caught the smallest hellhound on the shoulder, stabbing hard and true, the scent of burnt fur fused inside my nostrils. I hurried forward when the alpha lunged, those huge jaws only just missing Fenix’s arm as the demon scrambled back. In all the commotion, the smallest hellhound did as he was ordered: shifted from beast to man. A beat later, the other two followed, and by the time I situated myself between them and their tormentor, scythe at the ready, three men stared me down.
Three very naked, very tall, very gorgeous men.
Steam rose off their sculpted bodies in waves, the heat of the shift washing over me even at a distance. The alpha still stood out as the largest; at my best estimate, he neared seven feet, though he hunched now, still protecting his companion. That body—he was a wall of muscle, olive-skinned and brooding. Tattoos snaked around his forearms, lines of solid black that seemed to have no beginning and no end. Scars crisscrossed over his chest, his defined abdominals. I forced my gaze up, fire flaring in my cheeks.
So naked.
Don’t stare at their cocks, Hazel. I’d never seen men so, so very naked before in a setting like this, where I wasn’t reaping or nursing, and it…
Oh. It flustered me.
Another failure.
His eyes. The alpha’s eyes flustered me too, dark and hooded—angry. Another scar cut through his right brow and halfway down his cheek. A black mane trundled over his broad shoulders in frizzy waves. His full mouth set in a tense line as he glared down at me, his rough beard in need of sheering.
The other two lacked facial hair, though they were certainly no less handsome. The beta had transformed into a tall, lean man with brilliant blue eyes, a head of chestnut curls, and cheekbones that could cut glass. Flawless porcelain skin shone with sweat, the shift between beast and man noticeably taxing. While he lacked his alpha’s hulking muscular definition, he appeared wiry and strong, his hands crowned with long, graceful fingers and surprisingly clean, short nails.
And those eyes. Royal blue and mesmerizing; I could lose myself, easily, in those eyes.
The last of the bunch, my first connection, had short cropped black hair, brown skin, a heart-shaped face, and beautiful, big hazel eyes. He stood perhaps an inch shorter than the beta when he finally climbed to his feet, and it pained me to see he was just as scarred as his alpha. The marks on his perfectly carved torso reminded me of… bite marks. Like another hellhound had sunk his teeth in and refused to let go.
While they might be indestructible to some degree, my boys could scar. With enough force, an enemy could leave a memory on their flesh—and that infuriated me.
As we sized each other up, I felt them. Even with the space between us, my skin hummed as though I had just traced every peak and valley of their magnificent figures with my fingers. The bond was immediate and unnervingly visceral, their heat fueling me, bringing me back to life after ten lonely years of death. My reaper skin was cold to the touch, my kiss rumored to bring destruction. But in that moment, somehow touching but not, I was hot-blooded—I was home.
And the alpha and beta glowered down at me with the same disdain Fenix had for the mud he’d scraped off his boot.
The demon inserted himself into the moment—our moment—by tossing the spiked golden collars onto the ground between me and my pack, into the blood, and wrapping an unwelcome arm around my shoulders.
“Boys,” Fenix started, his words laced with cold, cruel mirth, “meet your new alpha.”
The full weight of their stares, their judgment, their scrutiny, suddenly made me feel very small. I swallowed hard and gave a little wave with my scythe.
“Uh… Hi.”
3
Gunnar
New alpha.
Ha.
In all my life, I had only yielded to one alpha, and he stood next to me, his fury hammering through our pack bond. Uh… Hi. I tipped my head to the side, my lips itching to spread into a patronizing smile to counteract the reaper’s awkward greeting, something to cut her off at the knees, put her in her place.
But my usual venom had taken a back seat—because that fucker Fenix was still touching her. My gaze lingered on the demon’s arm around her shoulders, thoughts of their intimacy overtaking my rapid assessment of this place, of our new circumstances. Just how familiar was she with our former master? Did she welcome his hands on her? From her tense posture, I could assume the answer—no, no, a thousand times no—but I knew nothing about her beyond her appearance.
Hardly the look of an alpha, and I had seen my fair share over the years. Most were brutish, big; Knox certainly fit the stereotype, but he possessed an innate strength I found lacking in every other alpha who had tried and failed to rule me.
He exemplified it now with his protective stance in front of Declan, walling off the weakest among us—caring for his own, a perceived weakness among demons and most other hellhounds. In my opinion, there was immense strength in softness, in recognizing the varying abilities of every individual. Declan had always been small. His former packs abused him mercilessly, and he carried that with him to this day. But he was bright, eager, and diligent—should he be given the chance.
Would this reaper allow him the opportunity to shine, just as Knox had, or would she dismiss him like all the rest?
I scrutinized her silently as she shrugged Fenix off. Her
fingers danced over her scythe’s wood staff, as though adjusting her grip. The most powerful weapon in all the worlds stood before us, clutched in the hand of a petite, albeit curvaceous, female. Clearly she had been found worthy of handling such profound majesty, but I struggled to picture her on the battlefield, caked in blood and cutting down foes with a blade forged in the cosmos.
Yes, we all knew a reaper’s scythe—what it could do to us should we be foolish enough to caress it. The stories passed from pack to pack, from demonic trainer to trainer, right up to the top of the hierarchy, who stood sneering back at us now, his own weapon still humming dangerously. The pain of its touch was amplified in human form; my body tensed instinctively, preparing for the shock I’d endured countless times before.
But it would be nothing compared to the scythe in her hand.
That was why none of us had attacked yet.
She might have signed her name in blood for our pack, paid for us with Heaven’s gold—but she would never own us. By sundown tonight, I’d have an escape mapped out. By sunrise tomorrow, we would be gone, lost in the wilderness I had scented upon our arrival.
Simple.
Almost too simple, perhaps, but I always welcomed a challenge—the rare time one presented itself.
“Have a blast, sweetheart,” Fenix crooned, clapping her hard on the back as he sauntered toward the front doors. Wealth glittered on his fingers, around his neck. Arrogance dripped from every pore. I gritted my teeth as I watched him go, loathing that he had taken one last opportunity to touch her before making his grand exit. Showy fucker. Once we were free, I’d find a way to kill him—if Knox didn’t get to him first.
The demon didn’t even have the courtesy to shut the doors properly behind him; he let them fall closed, but the breeze kept them from locking in place. They bumped with each gust, the lone bit of sound in an otherwise hushed, tense atmosphere. The four of us continued to stare, sizing each other up, the room crackling with a strange energy, like the air before a fight. The hairs on my arms rose. My nipples pebbled. My muscles tensed. Yet I remained still, watching, waiting, wondering who would break first.
Of course it was Knox. Predictable. My alpha turned on the spot, murmuring to Declan, and ducked low to meet my packmate’s gaze, no doubt asking after him, his mental state. Declan’s anxiety rippled frantically through our pack bond, a grating sensation that I felt in my teeth. Two years after taking him on, however, I’d gotten used to his moods—to his fear, his stress, his lingering trauma. Knox, meanwhile, radiated a powerful calm, though today his aura had a fiery undercurrent to it, pumping us up, preparing for battle.
I rolled my shoulders back, blocking out my pack’s internal strife. A rarity among our kind: the gift of focus. And in that moment, mine was pinned squarely on this new reaper, a reaper who seemed to have no fucking idea what to do with herself.
Although…
She was rather beautiful when the light hit her.
No other reaper had ever coaxed such a compliment from me.
Short in stature, she bore a rounded face, but none of her features were lost to the shape, her cheekbones as sharp as her chin. Wide-set eyes stared back at me, light coppery brown and unreadable. I’d expected blue with that shock of stark white hair, hair that she wore in a loose braid over her shoulder. She shared the same smooth, hauntingly pale skin as other reapers I’d seen, but hers flushed suddenly, a startling pinkish-brown that flashed all the way down her neck when her gaze flicked down and then shot back up.
My eyebrows rose, my smile incredulous.
Had she a problem with nudity?
Did it embarrass her, my cock—Knox’s, Declan’s?
Well. She had better get over it fast; clothes never survived a shift.
Not that any of us had been gifted so much as a scrap of fabric under Fenix’s care.
“So, I don’t know what they told you,” she started, her voice slicing through the tension with the ease of a blade through flesh. My jaw went slack for a moment, taken aback by the melodious lilt of her words, paired with that delicious, breathy rasp…
Surely the choruses of Heaven could never sound so fucking angelic. Knox and Declan fell quiet beside me, visceral interest from all three of us echoing through our pack bond. They heard it too—the beauty, the softness, the rich inflection. Had any of us experienced something so exquisite in our lifetime?
Certainly not in Hell.
“But, uh, my name is Hazel,” she continued, her cheeks flushed again—as if she too sensed the shift between us, the way we locked onto her as a predator homed in on its prey. “I’m a grim reaper. I’ve been reaping for ten years…”
Knox kept his back to her, still and silent, but out of the corner of my eye, I spotted Declan keenly peering around our alpha, his anxiety quieted, his interest piqued. She might have been a grim reaper, but there had to be some siren in the mix too. How else could she ensnare all three of us with but a few meaningless words?
“I died in 1943,” Hazel remarked, fidgeting with her scythe now as she glanced between me and my packmates. “I was a nurse in France on the front, and I was killed during a bombing. I was born in Britain, but we’re in North America now… West coast Canada, specifically. The year is 2020, and we’ll be reaping a coastal metropolis called Lunadell alongside another reaper and his pack.”
None of that mattered. We wouldn’t be here long enough to set foot in Lunadell or to cross paths with this other pack. I digested her sentiment, sure, but for once, my racing mind fixated more on the melody than the content.
No one said a word, and Hazel cleared her throat softly in the hush that followed her little speech. Did she wonder if we could understand her? All three of us had been schooled in the English language, but I also had the Nordic dialogues at my disposal. Declan was fluent in Arabic and Hebrew, while Knox had Spanish, Portuguese, and old Aramaic and Latin under his belt—should he need to eavesdrop on angels, of course. We understood every damn word that came out of her mouth, but it was the way she said them that knocked us on our asses.
At least, it did for me.
And that worried me more than I cared to admit, but it was a distraction I could master, just like everything else.
“No one told me your names,” the reaper said, her wide, imploring eyes falling to me, the only one who seemed to be giving her any real attention. “Just your pack ID number…”
Pathetic, her unspoken plea. As I’d suspected, she wasn’t alpha quality. Maybe a decent beta, but I wasn’t willing to give up my position anytime soon.
Still, catering to her had its benefits. I placed a hand over my heart. “Gunnar.”
Her whole being seemed to lift at the introduction, and something in me bloomed right alongside her. Heat flooded my body, similar to the fire of every shift, but I swallowed it down, ignored the pleasurable tingle ghosting along my flesh. After all, it wasn’t pity that made me speak to her—and it sure as fuck wasn’t her beauty either. There were benefits to lowering her guard, and a polite smile and a few choice words would likely do just that.
“This is Knox,” I continued with a wave toward my alpha, “and behind him is Declan.”
“Okay… Okay, good. Gunnar. Knox. Declan. Hi.” Her little pink tongue swept across her full, lush lips, a damnable distraction that had me weak in the knees again. She nodded and pushed her braid over her shoulder, the movement unleashing a cloud of her natural scent into the air. I clenched my jaw hard when she smiled, longing for the usual rush of smugness that hit whenever I’d bested someone, worked my way under their skin. Instead, I was off-kilter—distracted.
A moment later, she vanished, and I exhaled sharply, like that would rid her smell from my nostrils for good. The next inhale brought it all back, and when she reappeared out of nowhere, scythe in one hand, a pile of black material balanced on the other, her scent struck with the force of a fucking tempest.
Once, an old trainer had dragged me and my then pack to the Elysian Fields to practice herdi
ng human souls. The resting place of the ancient Greeks had been the one bit of brightness in an otherwise bleak, black past—the closest to paradise a hellhound would ever experience. In those fields blossomed thousands of wildflowers, aromatic, intoxicating, beautiful; they were my one and only frame of reference for sweetness, for a fragrance that wasn’t blood and shit and raw flesh.
Hazel’s scent reminded me of sweet alyssum. Subtle. Delicate. The little bunches of blooms grew in clusters, with soft white petals and a warm golden center. A human soul enjoying his afterlife had told me they smelled like honey.
Not that I knew what honey was, but from that moment, I craved it—lusted after it, ached to taste whatever produced that scent on my tongue.
Back then, I’d tried to whisk a few precious blossoms back to the pit with me, hidden under my collar, but my efforts had earned me a severe beating.
Today, just for a moment, I allowed myself to breathe her in, to relish the sweet alyssum, to remember in vivid detail one of my very few pleasant memories, not reacting in the slightest even when she offered me the pile of folded cloth.
“I wasn’t sure of your sizes,” Hazel admitted with a pointed look at the stack, willing me to take something from the top, “but I’ll have a better wardrobe for you guys tomorrow now that I’ve, er, seen you.”
Now that she’d seen us, eh? My smirk had color pluming back into her cheeks.
Oh, she was going to be such fun.
Begrudgingly, I accepted the top piece of the pile, then held my breath as she drifted by to force her offerings on the others. Like I needed that sweet, subtle scent of hers to addle my brain more than it already had. I unfurled the garment to find a pair of black trousers; it had been an age since I’d been allowed to cover myself in shifted form. Some trainers permitted it. Fenix had never approved such luxuries; he preferred Hazel’s response to our nudity, wanting to throw reapers off their game, if only for a moment, with a sculpted, sometimes scarred, body.
