Page 26 of The Reaper's Vow
“Alpha can ask me himself. Now open the gate before I decide to use your face as the key.”
Kenny hesitates for a fraction of a second before nodding to someone I can't see. The iron gates swing open with a groan of the metal, revealing a winding driveway that leads deeper into the compound.
As we pull forward, I catch Kenny speaking into a radio. Reporting our arrival.
“Fuck,” Damien mutters under his breath. “He’s already spreading the word.”
My stomach clenches as the implications hit me. “What does that mean?”
“It means we need to get you somewhere safe before they start showing up at my door with flowers and poetry.” His jaw ticks. “Wolves aren't exactly subtle when they're courting.”
“Courting?” The word comes out strangled. “I thought you said I was your mate.”
“You are. But they don't know that yet.” He parks in front of a building that looks like a cross between a luxury cabin and a fortress. “And even if they did, some of them might be stupid enough to challenge me for you.”
The burn under my skin spikes at his words, and I press my thighs together harder. My wolf preens at the idea of males fighting over us. I want to strangle her.
“This keeps getting better and better,” I mutter, unbuckling my seatbelt.
Damien’s out of the car before I can blink, moving around to my side. He opens the back door, retrieves my bag, then steps closer and extends his hand. I stare at it like it might bite me.
“Come on, kitten. Standing here in the open isn’t helping.”
I reluctantly take it, hating the way my skin tingles at the contact. His palm is rough and callused, his grip firm yet careful as he helps me out of the car. The moment I’m standing, he tugs me against his side, an arm locking around my waist.
“What are you doing?” I hiss, trying to push space between us.
“Making it clear you’re spoken for. Your scent’s getting stronger.”
“This is mortifying,” I groan as he guides me toward the entrance of what I assume are his quarters.
“Better mortified than mauled.” His hold tightens as a group of men emerge from a nearby building, their attention snapping toward us like predators catching wind of prey. “Eyes down, kitten.”
I obey without thinking, some instinct warning me against challenging dominant males in this state. My wolf goes quiet, unnervingly submissive.
The men change course angling straight for us. I count five. Damien’s arm tightens around me protectively as they approach. My heartbeat spikes, sweat beading at my brow. The pheromones I’m giving off must be a beacon to them.
“Reaper,” the tallest one calls out, his voice deceptively casual. “Didn't know you were bringing company home tonight.”
“Not company. Mine,” Damien growls, the vibration of his chest against my side sending unwelcome tingles down my spine. “Keep walking, Jackson.”
Jackson's nostrils flare as he inhales deeply. “She doesn't smell claimed to me.”
“That's because your nose is too far up your own ass to smell properly,” Damien retorts.
The men laugh, but there's no humor in it, just tension and something predatory that makes my skin crawl. They're circling us now, not close enough to touch but near enough that I can smell their interest—musky and sharp.
“Alpha Anselm will want to meet her,” says another, a stocky wolf with a scar bisecting his left eyebrow. “She’s a pretty little wolf. What’s your name, sweetheart?”
I don't get a chance to answer. Damien drops my bag on the ground next to my feet. His now free hand moves to his waistband, and suddenly there's a gun pointed directly at the scarred wolf's forehead.
“The next person who speaks to her dies,” he says conversationally, like he's commenting on the weather instead of threatening murder. “She's under my protection, which means she's under Bellandi protection. Touch her, look at her wrong, even think about her, and I'll paint these grounds with your blood.”
The wolves freeze, their casual predatory stance shifting to something more wary. I can smell the sudden spike of adrenaline and aggression rolling off them in waves. My wolf whimpers, pressing closer to Damien's warmth despite my mind's protests.
“Easy, Reaper,” Jackson says, hands raised in mock surrender. “We're just being friendly.”
“Your version of friendly looks a lot like stalking prey. Back off. Now.”
