Still His Pup: Honeymoon Special (The Reapers #3)

Chapter 1

I’m carrying everything.

Both suitcases, my duffel, his bag, the beach tote Cole stuffed full of “honeymoon essentials” that I’m terrified to open in public because it jingles when I move. The weight of it all is cutting into my fingers, my shoulder’s on fire, my back’s screaming—and I don’t give a single fuck.

Because Damian’s walking next to me with a barely-there limp and a snarl on his lips like he’s two seconds away from breaking my kneecaps for daring to help. He keeps trying to take the bags. I keep dodging. It’s a game now. One I’m winning. Barely.

“You’re limping,” I hiss under my breath.

“I’m fine,” he growls. Like I’m not dragging half our life through this airport just so he doesn’t pull a tendon on day one of our goddamn honeymoon.

“You’re still limping,” I say, speed-walking ahead before he can grab the handle of his bag. “I’m not letting you haul things until that knee stops clicking like a metronome with rabies.”

“It’s not—” he cuts himself off with a snarl, one that makes a nearby tourist clutch their pearls and veer into a gift shop.

I flash a smile. “Vacation, baby. Smile for the nice civilians.”

Damian does not smile. Damian looks like he’s about to murder the sun for daring to shine in his direction.

He’s still dressed in black, by the way.

All black, in a fucking tropical country.

Long sleeves and combat boots. Meanwhile, I’m already sweating through my stupid linen shirt and my thighs are chafing.

We make it outside, and the air hits me like a wall—thick, wet, all coconut, sea salt, and humid regret wrapped up in one breath.

My curls immediately declare war on gravity, frizzing out like they’ve been personally offended, while Damian’s hair somehow gets darker and shinier, like the heat was made for him.

I squint up at him, sweat already starting to bead at my spine.

“How are you not dying in that?”

He just grunts and keeps walking like the sun itself knows better than to touch him.

“That wasn’t an answer,” I add, shifting the weight of the bags before my shoulder fully gives out.

“You’ll be dying,” he says flatly, finally glancing at me, “if you don’t hand me my damn bag.”

“Nope.” I switch hands, the straps biting deeper into my fingers. “Not happening.”

He stops. Full stop. The world keeps moving but he doesn’t. Shadows cut across his face, the scar at his mouth pulling tight as his jaw sets, and when he says my name his voice drops so low it feels like it presses straight into my chest. “Elias. Nathaniel. Kade.”

I flinch before I can stop myself.

He steps in close, crowding my space until his body blocks the sun, one hand coming to brace at my hip like he might slam me into the side of the taxi if I breathe wrong. I tilt my head back to look at him, pulse skidding, heat pooling somewhere it shouldn’t.

“I am going to count to five,” he says.

I blink up at him, breath caught halfway between my lungs and my mouth. “Are you gonna fuck me in the backseat if I make it to five?”

His hand tightens on my hip, fingers digging in just enough to promise things, but I grin anyway. “Then I’m definitely not letting go.”

He leans down, mouth brushing my ear, voice all heat and sin. “You want to start our honeymoon with a scene, pup? Because I’ll bend you over that luggage carousel and make sure the baggage handlers never forget the sound you make when I—”

The driver clears his throat loudly, making me jolt like I’ve been caught watching porn in church.

Damian sighs, steps back, and glares at the taxi like it owes him money. I toss the bags into the trunk as fast as I can and clamber into the backseat before he changes his mind and tries to carry me and the luggage out of spite.

We settle in at last, the doors thudding shut behind us, the AC blasting cold air straight into my face while low reggae hums from the speakers like the driver’s trying to seduce the traffic into behaving.

Damian’s thigh is pressed flush against mine, radiating heat even through the fabric, his hand resting on my knee as his fingers drum slow and absentminded, like he’s already bored of behaving.

I let my gaze drift to the window, watching the city smear past in color and motion—palm trees, open-air market stalls, flashes of ocean glittering in the distance—and for the first time since the wedding, something in my chest finally loosens.

I glance over at him. He’s not looking at me, just staring out the window like he’s quietly plotting the downfall of every grain of sand on this island. But his thumb moves, rubbing over my skin in a way that’s barely there and somehow wrecks me anyway, like a reminder slipped under my ribs.

I bite my lip and lean closer. “We’re gonna get kicked out of this resort, aren’t we?”

He doesn’t even blink. Just mutters, calmly, “Only if you scream loud enough, baby.”

I wheeze, half-laughing, half-choking on it, and he finally flicks his eyes to me, the corner of his mouth twitching like he knows exactly what he’s doing.

The resort comes into view a moment later, and it looks like sin dressed up in palm trees and money.

White walls, sleek stone, hibiscus spilling everywhere like they’re showing off.

The air smells like vanilla, salt, and credit card debt, and some cheerful fountain burbles away in the middle of the driveway while people in designer shades sip something overpriced and act like the sun personally owes them rent.

Damian’s already striding toward the check-in desk like he owns the island, like he’s here to buy the place and burn the receipt afterward—no limp, no crutch, just that small, sharp tightness in his jaw that only shows if you know him well enough to read the fine print.

Which I do. Obsessively. I trail after him at a half-limping jog, dragging all six bags behind me, including the tote—the one that jingles.

The Cole bag.

I swear it’s heavier than it was five minutes ago.

I don’t trust it. It looks like a public safety violation wrapped in leopard print, and I refuse to open it until Damian’s in the shower and I’ve got gloves on.

I do know Cole slipped in at least three kinds of lube—probably edible, possibly cursed, maybe glowing in the dark—and I make a mental note to unpack that shit myself before Damian stumbles across it and throws me off a balcony in righteous fury.

The cane is mocking me too, sticking out of the duffel like an accusation, like it knows Damian didn’t want to bring it, didn’t want to need it, and is currently one misstep away from proving it right because someone—me—is absolutely going to get fucked in ways that test the structural integrity of expensive furniture.

I hoist everything forward, trying not to sweat straight through my tank top, and squint toward the marble check-in desk just in time to see it. The flirting.

Damian’s standing there in all six-foot-five inches of him, sleeves rolled to his forearms, sunglasses hooked casually at his collar, wearing an expression that says he’s contemplating murder with a fruit knife. And the concierge—the man is swooning.

He’s leaned forward with both elbows on the counter, smile cranked up to something unprofessional, voice dipped low and soft in that way people do when they think they’re being subtle.

His fingers tap the desk in a slow rhythm, and his gaze keeps flicking down—to Damian’s arms, his chest, the scar like it’s a religious experience.

I growl. It actually slips out of me, low and instinctive, before I can stop it, like I’m some jealous hellhound and this pretty little twink in a bowtie just wandered too close to my bone.

Damian doesn’t turn around, but he smirks. I catch it—the faint twitch at the corner of his mouth—like he knew exactly when I’d snap. The concierge startles, straightens, clears his throat, and suddenly remembers how to stand like a professional human being.

And I tighten my grip on the bags, teeth clenched, already plotting murder.

I stomp the rest of the way up, dramatic as hell, all bag straps and rage and territorial heat radiating off me like I’m about to piss on the marble. I slam the bags down behind us with a thud that makes the fake orchids tremble in their fancy gold vases.

Damian doesn’t look back at me, doesn’t break his posture or his focus on the desk in front of him, but his hand reaches behind his back like it knows exactly where I am, fingers finding mine without searching and giving a gentle tug.

And just like that, everything in me caves.

The rage fizzles out, my heart stutters, and I lace my fingers through his, squeezing tight as I lean in close enough to murmur against his shoulder, my voice low and sharp with it.

“He keeps looking at your chest again,” I whisper. “I’m going feral.”

Damian hums, barely audible. “Let him.”

“Baby.”

“He’s just doing his job.”

I narrow my eyes, jaw setting as I watch the concierge out of the corner of my vision. “His job does not include undressing you with his face.”

That’s when Damian finally turns. And the smile he gives me—soft and smug—hits like a promise I’m not prepared for. “Are you jealous?” he asks.

I blink up at him, pulse kicking hard. “Do you want me to be?”

His hand slips free of mine and slides to my waist instead, thumb settling at my hip with casual ownership, grounding and infuriating all at once. He leans in, close enough that his lips brush my temple as he murmurs, low and private, “I want you to show me later.”

Fucking hell.

The concierge is already rattling off details—private villa, plunge pool, sea view, the words “honeymoon package” floating past like meaningless noise—but I can’t track any of it, not with Damian’s fingers teasing the waistband of my shorts and his voice still lingering against my ear like an afterimage.

“I’m gonna ruin you in that pool, pup,” he murmurs under his breath. “And you’re gonna scream loud enough they do kick us out.”