Page 13 of Reaper's Pack

Just great.

“What are these?” Meanwhile, Declan had gotten away from me, loitering in front of the stove now with a stalk of celery in one hand and a carrot in the other. “Do you eat these?” His nostrils flared, chest stuttering through a curious sniff. “Are they the parsley and butter?”

Manipulation or not, his inquisitiveness plucked at my heartstrings. “No, they’re sides for the meat. Just something complementary.”

I kept an ear out for the other two once I turned my back and joined Declan at the counter. He trailed his nose along the length of the unpeeled carrot, dirt hidden in its grooves, then snorted when the fuzzy green tops tickled his nostrils. I held back my smile, not wanting to make him self-conscious. Genuine curiosity was just such a beautiful thing, and if this wasn’t an act, I’d hate to see him lose it.

Because Declan was my in with this pack—that much was clear.

Gunnar was a wild card, someone who I could probably force into a conversation with the right prompting.

Knox… I looked back as Declan tossed the carrot aside and focused on the celery stalk. His alpha remained at the head of the island, hands bloody, eyes hard and almost pure black, that enormous frame filling the room like the biggest kitchen I’d ever seen was still too small for him.

I sighed softly. Knox would be a problem.

A crisp crunch tore me away from the brooding alpha, and a giggle slipped out before I could stop it. Declan had chomped off half the celery stalk, bottom first, and had the same horrified look on his face that I’d had when I first saw the trio dive into the raw venison. When our eyes met, his features morphed from disgust to, well, a sad attempt at a smile.

“It’s great,” he mumbled through a mouthful of half-chewed celery. His mouth said one thing, but his eyes screamed the opposite. “Really just… exceptional. Delicious stuff.”

“Okay, so no to the celery.” I plucked the remaining half stalk from his hand and pushed the rest across the counter with my elbow, grinning. I then dumped his leftover venison hunk in the cold pan on the stove, my hands bloody. “Noted. Let me just find the recipe for the venison, and we’ll try to make something that’s actually good.”

“M’okay,” the hellhound forced out, clearly battling to keep that enthusiastic expression in place. The second I left the kitchen, he was spitting out that celery—hopefully not on the floor.

“Garbage is under the sink,” I whispered with a wink, willing my hands clean with a flicker of magic. “Be right back.”

I felt his eyes on me as I hurried toward the kitchen door, that bright, curious gaze soon joined by two others, all three palpable and somehow distinct. The hairs on the nape of my neck stood on end, and when I slipped into the hall and went for the first-floor sitting room to grab my tablet, I realized that whole encounter had happened without my scythe.

We could be civil, apparently.

The thought of which—finally—put a bit of pep in my step.

And a smile in my heart.

* * *

Through our combined efforts, Declan and I had proven to be, at best, mediocre cooks. The venison had been a little overdone. The seasoning could have been more aggressive. The carrots had turned to mush. But my sweetest, most interactive hellhound ate every last bit of it—even licked his plate clean—all under Knox’s watchful eye.

As soon as we’d started following the recipe on my tablet, Gunnar had bailed, having finished all his raw meat, but the pack’s alpha stayed through everything, not saying a word but watching my interactions with Declan like a hawk.

Not a demonic hawk, mind you. Knox’s looks were darker than a demon, more primal, perhaps even ominously ethereal. As we cooked, I’d swallowed my discomfort, suffering through his relentless black gaze on me for the sake of seeing the task to the end. And now, hours later, I was glad that I did, because it had taught me a few very important things about at least one of my hellhounds.

Declan took orders well. He did whatever the recipe called for, but only after I read off the instruction or asked him to. The hellhound looked to me for everything, then completed the task diligently—perfectly, even. It had proven my initial read of him correct: eager, thoughtful, and thorough. All traits Alexander had told me you wanted in a hellhound.

That and staunch loyalty. This evening’s cooking endeavor had given me some confidence that Declan would excel once we started our actual training, that we could work together as a team. Of course, there was still time for him to prove me wrong, to rip the rug out from under me and show his true colors. They all had that chance, and while at the end of the first day I felt gingerly optimistic about our potential, I kept my guard up all the same.

Because after cooking, the boys had gone back to the silent treatment. I had taken the trio on a tour of the house, from the basement cellar right up to the rickety attic with holes in the roof. As the sun dipped below the horizon, setting late this time of year, I’d shown them the grounds up to the tree line—the gardens, the overgrown walking paths, the ruins of an old caretakers cottage, the field where we would soon practice tracking, retrieval, and the sit-stay-come routine Alexander had drilled into my head. Neither Gunnar nor Knox had looked too thrilled about any of it, but every now and again Declan had shot me a trying smile.

So.

That was something, right?

After the tour, I’d let them be, and the pack disappeared up to their floor without so much as a backward glance. Although I could have dipped into a little magic to tidy the kitchen, I cleaned it all by hand, right down to scrubbing the countertops, all of them stained with something somehow resistant to soap and elbow grease. Standing in the doorway now, admiring my work, it was hard to see what had actually been done over the last hour; despite my efforts, a layer of grime clung to the whole house from top to bottom. I let out a defeated huff.

Gut job. Everything needed to go at some point, but unfortunately for the pack, their training took priority. But in time, I would get it up to snuff. They deserved that… Hopefully.

With my scythe resting on one shoulder, I drifted from the kitchen to the foyer, then up the stairs toward the second floor. It had been an age since exhaustion touched me, but tonight, in the settling darkness, it made every step labored, my eyes heavy, my cheeks sore from forced smiles and one-sided conversations. On the landing, my free hand went to my hair, loosening the base of my braid in front of the dusty window. The woven white locks peeled apart as my hand worked its way up, my reflection captured in a glass pane speckled with dirt. At least the muck was on the outside. Like today, it could have been worse.

In the distance, an endless sea of red cedars danced in the breeze, their pointed tops swaying to and fro. A peaceful summer night met my absentminded staring, just as quiet out there as it was in here. I glanced at the staircase branching off from the left of the landing, up to the pack’s floor. Maybe it was a little… too quiet?

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