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A moan escapes my lips while eating the best cinnamon roll waffles I’ve ever had. The old-fashioned waffle house is empty at this late hour, allowing the three large guards to sit at the counter away from us. Khazon sits in front of me at one of the uncomfortable red booths, rubbing his headache away with two fingers.
“Do you want some?” I offer, grabbing a piece on my fork before holding it out for him.
He looks up at me, dark eyes burning into me. “No.”
I roll my eyes, eating it myself. “Come on, Khazzie. I’m buying.”
“Because you’re made of money now? Why do you even do… that?” he says, sounding very grumpy that I had been stripping. Cute.
I set down my fork, licking my lips as I lean in. “I made a few hundred dollars on Saturday and Sunday last week. Do you know how many men would kill to see me dance? I’ve gotten better over the last two years, and I can tell what a guy wants by just looking at them.” My eyes scan up and down his body and I can tell what he needs. A dominant woman.
“It’s kind of degrading, don’t you think?”
I snort. “No. Men are going to look at me either way. Might as well make them pay. And it raised my confidence in my body and sexuality tenfold. I don’t feel degraded. I feel empowered.”
Me speaking catches the attention of the guards—the hell hounds. That’s who guards the Soul Reapers—three hellhounds of their choosing. They feel what each other feels. They heal with each other’s magic. They don’t even need to speak for one of them to know what the reaper is thinking. It’s a sacred bond that I will never understand.
I pull out my phone, pulling up that app for the club where people can send you tips online. “I made almost four hundred dollars from one dance tonight. Imagine if I was able to do my whole set for the night.” Most nights are never this good. In fact, there are nights I leave with less money than I had. But then there’s some nights, like tonight, where everyone in town is there and the night is going smoothly, until four supernatural beings crash the fun.
Although, I am raving about the money, the club life sucks. Between the bruises from the poles and the hells to the incessant sexual assault we deal with, the money doesn’t amount to much—and it certainly doesn’t make up for the downfalls of the club life. But at the end of the day, hard work pays off. I’m paid and my confidence is higher. Something about dancing and letting go on or off the pole makes me feel free.
He glances at the phone, rolling his eyes. “Don’t care.”
I roll my eyes and go back to eating.
One of his hellhounds turns to talk to us, the cute one from the club. “So, you guys know each other?”
I nod, just as Khazon says, “No.”
My brow cocks. “Khazon and I grew up together. We were inseparable.”
“Until you left,” he deadpans.
A sliver of guilt runs through me, but I shove more waffles into my mouth to push it down. “Shit happens but it seems like someone is still hurt by it.” I turned to the guy. “Did Khazon pick you or…? And what are your names, dogs?”
“Ledger,” the cute one from the club says, smiling at me. “Master picked us himself.”
“Master? Knew he was a freak,” I tease, but I can tell Ledger called him that as a joke.
“The other two are Eames and Andrew,” he says. But he can probably tell that I’m not interested in them. They just aren’t as pretty as Ledger. He looks almost unreal. Tall and wide, more than Khazon is now. He leans against the counter, sipping his coffee as his red eyes run over me. Jet black curls fall against his ivory forehead.
Oh, the things I would do to him… I’d make him my bitch for the night and torture him with a harsh edging until he’s begging and—
“Stop looking at my hound like he’s your last waffle.” Khazon snaps at me.
Slowly, I pry my eyes from his guard and look up at him. “I see being an anima whatever has their perks. Maybe I’ll become one to have hot hellhounds I can fuck too.”
“Anima Messorms,” Khazon corrects, fixing his uniform. I glance down, seeing all the tactical gear that is hidden under the normal leather jacket. I faintly see the symbol of the academy on his chest—the grim reaper skull with a vine circling it, “and I don’t fuck my hounds. They are here to help and protect me, not for sex.”
I was the ripe age of eighteen when I left home. It was the age I could have gone to Grim Reaper’s Soul Reaper Academy to become a reaper. I refused, knowing if I did, I’d be closer to being the heir, and I didn’t want that.
“Sad,” I say with a smile and glancing at Ledger who smiles back. My eyes go back to Khazon, who is glaring at me. “So, you’re at least a level one anima whatever because they’d never let you out otherwise.”
“Level two.”
My brows bounce. “That quickly?”
“I was motivated,” Khazon says, eyes hard on me.
