Famine (The Four Horsemen #3) - Laura Thalassa Page 0,104
light and fluttery. I don’t think I’ve ever been around someone who was so offputtingly beautiful.
Famine doesn’t remove the bottle from my lips for a long time, and I don’t stop drinking, the two of us watching each other.
Again, I feel that light, airy sensation in my stomach, the one that makes me feel like I can fly.
It’s the alcohol, I tell myself.
Not looking away from me, the horseman finally lowers the liquor from my lips, then brings it to his own.
Heat pools low in my belly.
The Reaper drinks and drinks … and drinks. He doesn’t stop until he’s drank the liquor dry.
He sets the empty bottle down onto the table with a heavy clink. “Would you like another demonstration?” he asks.
“Demonstration?” I echo, lost. I’m still hung up on the fact that Famine just drank all the rum.
His mouth curves up into a smile. “I’ll take that as a yes.”
Famine stands, and before I can call him back, he heads into the kitchen. He returns several minutes later with enough alcohol to kill a small army.
He sets his loot down on the table, knocking some of our food aside.
“You have a drinking problem,” I state.
Not that I blame him. If Elvita didn’t have a no-substance-abuse policy in place for her girls, I probably would’ve fallen into the same trap years ago.
“I kill humans by the thousands, and that’s your issue?” he says. “That I drink too much?”
He makes a fair point.
“I have a problem with the killing too.” Sort of.
In truth, I should have more of a problem with it, especially considering all the transgressions Famine has made against me and my loved ones. But I’ve come to a strange sort of peace with who and what the horseman is. I want him to stop, but I can’t stop him.
And if I’m being brutally honest, I don’t know if I should.
Humans can be awful. Maybe this is what we deserve.
Famine doesn’t stop drinking. He drinks and drinks and drinks. It’s enough booze to kill a man three times over. But the Reaper seems fine. Honestly, he doesn’t even appear all that fucked up.
While he works on the alcohol, I make it a personal mission to polish off most of the food in front of me. I drink a little too.
Amongst it all, we’ve taken to asking each other questions about anything and everything.
“How many men have you been with?” Famine asks, sipping on a glass of wine.
“Sexually?” I say, grabbing a handful of nuts. “I don’t know.” I pop one of the cashews in my mouth. “A lot.”
“How many women have you been with?” he follows up.
“Thirty-three,” I say without missing a beat.
His eyebrows go up. “You kept count?”
“They were more memorable bed partners,” I say. I eat another couple nuts. “How about you?” I ask. “How many people have you been with?”
Famine takes a long drink of his wine, his gaze growing distant. “I don’t know. I don’t remember the number.”
I give him a strange look. “Then why did you think I would remember?
“Because you’re a human, and you give a fuck about human things. I, on the other hand, do not.” With that, he polishes off his drink.
Famine leans forward to refill his glass. “Speaking of human things, what quaint little talents do you have?” he asks.
“I can fuck a man nearly blind,” I say helpfully.
He exhales.
Aw, did he think I’d given up on the uncomfortable sex jokes? Poor, naïve man.
I give the Reaper an innocent look. “I can demonstrate if you’d—”
“Let’s leave my eyes out of this,” he says, bringing his now full glass of wine to his lips. “I already lost both hands in the last day. I’d hate for my eyes to go too.”
Despite his words, I swear he looks half intrigued.
Personally, I’m far more than half intrigued.
“So, besides blinding men,” he says, “what else do you like to do? Read? Sing? Dance? Wait, forget about that last one. I know you can’t dance for shit.”
It’s such a rude goddamn thing to say, but a laugh slips out anyway. I’ve sort of developed a soft spot for Famine’s asshole-ish personality.
“Fuck you,” I respond good-naturedly.
“Mmmm …” Again, he gives me a speculative look, like he’s taking my words literally.
The thought heats my skin.
“I can bang out a few keys on the piano,” I say carefully, answering his earlier question, “and I can carry a tune if it’s simple enough.”
But the horseman doesn’t look like he’s listening, and now my mind is back on how it