Famine (The Four Horsemen #3) - Laura Thalassa Page 0,103

they never came here.

“So you guys come in waves?” I ask.

He cracks a nefarious smile at my words. “Something like that.”

“And Pestilence and War—the two that came before you—are they gone now?” The tales I heard of those horsemen are old and weatherworn. “Is that why you’re here … awake?”

“Essentially,” Famine says.

I furrow my brows. “And Death … is asleep?”

The Reaper nods. “Deep beneath the earth.”

That’s not unsettling or anything.

“Why didn’t all four of you come at the same time?” I ask. “Why draw out the process of killing us?” If there’s one thing humans are good at, it’s saving our own skins. It seems as though it would be infinitely easier to eradicate us all at once than little by little.

“Why indeed?” Famine agrees. “I’ve asked myself the same question. Let me ask you this: why don’t birth and death happen at the same time?”

“That makes no sense,” I say, taking another swallow of the spiced rum I hold.

“One must live before one dies,” the horseman continues. “There’s a certain order to things—even divine things—especially divine things. My brothers and I come when we do because that is the nature of our purpose—and it’s the nature of your fates.”

Chapter 34

The horseman is sharing a lot of himself tonight. I mean, a lot a lot. More than he ever has. That’s what strikes me most as I rifle through the items in the pantry, grabbing the cassava chips and the cheese bread and setting them on the ground as well.

I can’t decide if Famine was always willing to share these parts of himself and I’m just now comfortable enough asking him these questions … or if he’s the one who now feels comfortable enough answering them.

I grab a basket filled with dried figs, and another filled with cashews and set them on the ground. There’s a roll of salami and another basket of Brazil nuts. I grab these final two item and lower myself to the floor, my back against a sack of rice.

“I’m not sitting on the ground,” Famine says, scornfully staring down at me.

“Then stay standing,” I reply. I mean, I don’t really fucking care.

He sets the bottle of wine he still holds on one of the nearby counters. Then, without warning, he scoops me up and begins carrying me away from the food, pausing only to snatch up the spiced rum from where it rested next to me.

“Hey!” I protest. “I was comfortable.”

“You’ll like this better,” he insists.

“Ah, yes, because you understand my desires so much better than I do.”

Famine gives me a look, one that’s heated as hell, and now I’m thinking about his mouth again … and those other parts of him I saw earlier today.

I barely register that we’ve crossed through the kitchen and entered the dining room.

The Reaper kicks out a chair and dumps me into it. A moment later, he sets the rum down on the table in front of me.

“For you to entertain yourself until I get back,” he says into my ear.

With that, he leaves the dining room. I can hear him rustling around in the pantry. When he returns, he brings the basket of cheese bread, the cassava chips, the salami, and the cashews.

I stare at him, brows lifted. “Are you actually … serving me?”

“I’m bringing us dinner,” he corrects me before leaving once more.

A minute passes, and then Famine returns with the wine and the last of the food, dropping the wheel of cheese unceremoniously onto the table, the knife I used now jutting out from the center of it.

“You are serving me,” I say incredulously.

He scrapes out the chair next to me and sits down, then grabs my seat and drags it over to him. He pulls me in so close that his thighs are bracketing mine in, and there’s nowhere else to look but at him.

This is … cozy.

The Reaper reaches across the table and plucks the bottle of rum from where it sits.

I’m watching him curiously, unsure of what the horseman is doing.

He meets my gaze, a sly smile on his lips, and then he grabs the bottom of my jaw.

“What are you—?”

The horseman lifts the spiced rum to my lips. “This, little flower, is me serving you.”

And then he feeds me the spirits.

I watch him as I drink, and maybe it’s my imagination, but his eyes seem to smolder.

I try not to stare, but the sight of him—from his tan skin to those cruel, sensual lips and his volatile gaze—is making my stomach feel