Famine (The Four Horsemen #3) - Laura Thalassa Page 0,117

left behind.

Famine turns around, his gaze finding mine. A moment later, his eyes dip to my chest. Belatedly, I realize that my rose colored dress is soaked through, molding perfectly to my breasts. Breasts that the Reaper is now staring at.

Just like that, it seems as though last night never ended. I can see Famine’s hunger; it matches my own.

It looks like it takes him enormous effort, but he eventually tears his gaze away, his eyes landing heavily on mine as he exhales.

This is going to be harder than I thought, his expression seems to say. Or maybe those are my own thoughts.

The horseman brushes past me then, heading back outside.

“Why don’t you just bring your horse inside?” I call after him. It’s not like anyone cares about what a horse might do to this place.

The Reaper comes back in carrying several sacks and his scythe. He tosses his weapon onto the floor, the metal clattering as it skids along the ground. “Make him endure this moldy, cramped space? I may be wicked, but I am not that wicked.”

I give him a funny look. “You are so odd.”

Everything he believes—all his opinions and assumptions—are unlike anything I’ve ever come across.

“No, my flower, it is you who are odd. Lewd and witty and very, exceptionally odd.”

He sets the packs he’s carrying onto a derelict table, the wood swollen and warped. In one of them, I hear the clink of what must be Famine’s scales. He, however, turns his attention to the other bag. From it, he pulls out a blanket and the remnants of last night’s food.

I stare at the items with rising apprehension. “You packed,” I say. “For me.”

He thinks of me and my needs even when I’m not around—needs that he doesn’t share. My chest tightens in an almost painful way. But the sensation is soon followed by fear.

“You look like you’re going to hurl,” the horseman says conversationally as he tucks the blanket under his arm.

“I’m just—that was kind of you. Is all,” I say like an idiot.

He lifts an eyebrow. “I didn’t realize you take to kindness about as well as I do. I’m actually strangely pleased by this.”

He strides down the hall, peering into one of the far rooms. “There’s a mattress back here you could sleep on, but full disclosure—there are more lifeforms growing on it than there are in the rest of the house.”

That snaps me out of my thoughts.

“The floor is fine.”

The Reaper returns to the living room and kicks aside a beat up coffee table before unfurling the blanket, laying it in the middle of the room.

Once he’s finished straightening it out, Famine stands back, looking mighty pleased with himself. Because he made me a bed. Never mind that there’s no pillow or a top sheet to cover myself with. The man who gets everyone to do his bidding went out of his way yet again to do something for me.

My heart is beating loudly in my chest.

I don’t know if I can do this.

I’ve spent a long time working on not falling in love. I don’t want that to end now—and with the Reaper no less. Because heartbreak will follow—it always does—and if gentle Martim was able to break my heart into a thousand pieces, what would terrible, merciless Famine do to it?

“Well?” the horseman says, looking at me for some sort of reaction.

Mechanically I move to the sheet and sit down.

“Thank you for this.” My voice sounds wooden.

Famine scrutinizes me. “I will figure it out, you know.”

I give him a questioning look.

“What’s been on your mind,” he explains.

My stomach bottoms out.

Oh right.

“Please don’t,” I say softly.

All he does is smile.

I’m doomed.

Chapter 39

Rain patters against the roof, and I can hear the steady drip of it from several leaks in the roof.

I sit on the blanket Famine laid out for me while the Reaper rummages around the house. My stomach is full from eating the food the horseman packed for me. Now that it’s dark, I should be tired.

Instead my senses buzz. Night has always been the time I worked, so I’m used to feeling awake when most people are settling in for the evening. However, I’m not used to my heart leaping and my skin pricking with awareness at the horseman’s every word and gesture.

Right now I can hear him strike a match. There’s a hiss and a burst of light. A minute later he strides over to where I sit, carrying the clay oil lamp I saw earlier, a