Reaper's Pack (All the Queen's Men Book 1) by Rhea Watson

Author:Rhea Watson [Watson, Rhea]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2020-03-21T04:00:00+00:00

18

Hazel

“So… Is this when we fuck?”

My blood ran cold, and I stopped suddenly, which forced humans to peel around me on the sidewalk, thus creating an even wider berth than they had already given Knox and me, a few grumbling under their breath. Even with the hellhound loitering behind me as he had since we’d left the safety of the ward, I could feel his accusatory stare, his bitter grin.

The ice in my veins twisted around the ever-present knot in my gut. Because he wasn’t wrong. On both Declan and Gunnar’s off-duty outings, we had—fucked. Declan a week ago, Gunnar last night. The beta hellhound and I had stumbled into the manor with its recently fixed roof and fresh windows long after midnight, clothes torn to shreds, both of us drunk on sex and opera and each other. I’d then skipped breakfast, leaving the guys to fend for themselves, because I couldn’t face Declan. Or Gunnar. Or Knox.

Being with my pack—intimately—hadn’t felt wrong.

But I knew, deep down, it should.

So, somehow, guilt had finally gotten a hold of me, almost because it should, and I had let it drag me to a dark place, which put me in the worst mood for my Sunday afternoon outing with Knox.

An outing I still hadn’t quite figured out yet. I’d thought it would just come to me when we stepped into the human realm in an alley near downtown Lunadell. Then, as the great mountain of a man trailed after me through the busy streets, I had hoped an idea would spark when we stopped in front of Lunadell’s version of Central Park. So far, nothing.

And now…

Is this when we fuck?

Shame made my entire body boil. Guilt weighed it down. Frustration sparked a high-pitched whine between my ears, along with anger that I thought I had to feel this way.

Slowly, I faced him—and found the exact expression I’d expected. Surely Gunnar had filled him and Declan in on last night.

Of my three climaxes.

The old me, the human me, would have called a woman weak for succumbing to her base instincts, her most primal desires. My head screamed that I was weak, while my heart flipped my head the bird and demanded we go into the park—watch the children play. A few days into October, the weather was mild and the sun high. All in all, the perfect Sunday afternoon for a stroll.

And then there was Knox, the lone storm cloud threatening to burst.

We stared at each other for a very long moment, daring the other to blink first. Quite the pair we were: me in black jeans, black flats, a black peacoat like many of the humans. It was fall, after all, and even if the slowly plummeting temperatures didn’t bother me, out here I needed to look like they did. Knox hadn’t gone quite that far, but the dark slacks, the combat boots, the black long-sleeved sweater with the slightest of V-necks—exaggerated by his broad chest, defined pectorals, positively rippling muscles—suggested he had at least tried to blend in.

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