Page 45 of Reaper's Pack

Gunnar needed a challenge. He needed mental stimulation just as much as the physical, and I had rightly guessed that selecting a soul who thought he was better than all of us would tickle his fancy.

Nothing like another giant ego to really spur a perfectionist genius into action.

Yet despite this being his first field test, Gunnar and I were still a team; he needed to experience how we would work together after we—hopefully—passed the trials at the end of October. So, anticipating Kenneth’s continued blitz across the various midrise buildings, I teleported once more.

And arrived just ahead of him, catching him off guard four buildings over, my heels on the precarious side of the building, scythe aimed at his throat. The soul’s mad eyes widened, and he reared back, my scythe’s blade just missing his shoulder as he pivoted and beelined for the nearby service door into the tower. Gunnar turned on a dime and barreled through the grungy, locked metal door after his quarry.

Shouldering my scythe, I jogged after them, then paused in the dimly lit stairwell, cataloguing the scuffling of feet, the sudden collision of knees on stairs, the grunt of Kenneth Miller when he undoubtedly ate it—and Gunnar’s ferocious snarls bouncing off the walls.

A small smile played across my lips.

Good.

Excellent—just as I thought he’d be. I’d requested these souls for my boys because I wanted them to succeed.

They needed to know they were good at something, that they were worthy, that they had value.

That they could do something I couldn’t.

And that I needed them.

After all, had I been by myself, I could have caught Kenneth’s psychotic soul, but in a city the size of Lunadell, without a pack corralling souls while I was off escorting someone else to Purgatory, we could have had another brutal poltergeist on our hands.

I found the pair five floors down on one of the dark stairwell landings, Kenneth on the ground and backed into a corner by a rather imposing Gunnar.

While the whole pack seemed to take a nod from their alpha’s subdued attitude, Gunnar was without a doubt the most composed in a snarky, lazy sort of way. Although he had gone through the training motions over the last month, he struck me as a hellhound who did what he wanted, when he wanted, at the pace he wanted—unless Knox ordered otherwise. Seeing him now, in all his glory, cowing a rogue soul with every tool at his disposal…

It was almost… sexy?

I swallowed hard, ignoring the heat in my cheeks and the pleasurable twist in my belly. Intriguing. Not sexy—interesting. Sure, let’s go with that.

“Well done, Gunnar,” I praised, sauntering down the last few steps to join them on the landing. “Excellent work.”

The hellhound backed off, but only slightly, still using his massive body to block Kenneth’s various escape routes. He had already proven to be quick on his feet, adaptable and persistent. If Kenneth wanted to run again, he wasn’t going to make it far.

And from the look in his eye, the slight tremble of that push-broom mustache, the soul of a serial killer at our feet knew it.

“Kenneth Miller,” I said in my very best reaper’s lilt, our eyes locked, “I’m here to take you away.”

The fear in his gaze vanished, replaced by a raw fury that chilled me to the core—because that look must have been what his victims saw just before he butchered them. Cut them into pieces. Mailed parts of them back to their families. Defiled their corpses.

“Fuck you, bitch,” Kenneth sneered, clawing up the corner to a crouched position. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Then, for the first time in my reaping career, a human soul spat at me.

The wet blob landed on the hem of my billowing black robe, and, taken aback, the best response I could manage was to blink down at it. I’d been called all sorts of names, experienced every kind of emotion—but to be spit upon… Well, it was certainly new.

Gunnar snapped out of the lull before I could, charging at Kenneth, all teeth and muscle and rage, tackling him to the ground and snapping a hair’s width from his face. Burly, almost demonic growls reverberated through the stairwell, and I felt their rumbling depth between my thighs.

Spittle painted Kenneth Miller’s cheeks, and he cowered as far into the concrete as he could, a hand up to shield himself from Gunnar’s wrath.

Surprise raced down my spine and pooled hotly in my core. Ever since our little talk in the dining hall, things had been strained between Gunnar and me, to the point that I worried it would affect today.

Yet here he was—defending me?

Defending my honor?

The fire in my cheeks exploded, scorching across every inch of skin as I lunged forward. A gentle hand on his raised hackles had the hellhound retreating, but just barely, allowing only enough space for me to kneel in front of the recoiling soul.

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