Famine (The Four Horsemen #3) - Laura Thalassa Page 0,119
pound loudly, so loudly I’m sure he can hear it. These are things lovers—true lovers—say to each other, and I can’t bear it. It’s my weakness. Ask any girl who’s known too little love in her life and she’ll tell you—this is how you ensnare us.
“Don’t tell me you haven’t been reconsidering it yourself?” Famine says.
I glance away, picking at a loose thread on the blanket.
“Ana.”
Reluctantly, my eyes return to his, and he sees it. I know he does.
His eyes widen, then after a moment, he flashes me a triumphant grin. “You have.” He stares at me a little longer, and I hear him inhale a breath. “That’s what you’ve been keeping from me all day,” he says, like he’s finally figured it out.
But I don’t think he has. I think if Famine knew the depth of what I’m feeling right now, he wouldn’t be so pleased.
He catches my chin and pulls my face closer, leaning in until only a few short centimeters separate our lips. “Little flower, I’m happy to give you an encore of last night,” he says, his voice low. I can hear his own desire, and it is not helping anything at this point.
I stare at the horseman, unwilling to speak. I don’t trust my mouth; it might blurt out every tangled, confused emotion I’m feeling right now.
“I’m used to having casual sex,” I admit, “but this … this isn’t casual, Famine, and I don’t know how to handle it.”
The horseman’s eyes are bright and deep, and part of me really wants to know what he thinks of that.
“I’m not used to handling any of this,” he says.
He releases my chin and sits up. “Get comfortable.” He nods to the blanket we’re sitting on. “I’ll tell you a story—with a head scratch—and then I’ll leave.”
I frown at the leave part, but then—head scratch?
I’m laying down in a matter of seconds, Famine sitting at my side.
His hand slips through my hair, and I have to bite back a very sexual-sounding moan because it feels so good.
“How about I tell you about the time I met one of my brothers,” he says thoughtfully.
“Mmm,” I say noncommittally, not really paying attention to his words until—
“Wait.” I begin to sit back up. “You mean here, on earth?”
Famine pushes me back down. “Yes.”
“Which brother?” I ask, head scratch forgotten. “And what was he doing? What were you doing? What did you do to each other?” Oh my God, the questions I have.
Famine continues to rub my head. “I was making my way south through Europe. I’d already left the mainland, and I was crossing the Aegean Sea. I was about to arrive on Crete when I crossed paths with War.” His gaze grows distant.
“In this form,” Famine says, “it’s hard to sense my brothers, but it isn’t impossible. I knew War was close; I could feel him approaching me just as he must’ve felt me approaching him.”
I had never thought to press Famine for information on his brothers. Clearly, I should’ve.
“He met me on the beach,” he says.
I try to picture it in my mind—Famine meeting War, one of his brothers.
The Reaper falls silent.
“And?” I prod.
“He told me to leave.”
“Did you?” I ask.
Famine’s eyes slip to mine, a wry smile on his face. “One does not pick fights with War, not even in his mortal form. I left him and his family alone—”
“Family?” I interrupt, shocked.
What in the actual hell?
“War has a family?”
“So does Pestilence.”
I stare at Famine, trying to process that. “You mean to tell me that two of your brothers have settled down and had kids?” I say carefully.
Famine nods.
“… How?” I finally ask.
The horseman gives me a sly look. “It’s really quite simple, flower. They fucked mortal women. Those women got pregnant. Now they have families.”
My eyes feel like they’re bulging from their sockets. Right now, everything this horseman says is wilder than the thing before it.
“You horsemen can get women pregnant?” I ask.
Jesus. I hadn’t even thought about that.
“I can eat and sleep and do just about everything else a human can,” Famine says. “Is being able to procreate really so shocking?”
“Yes.”
It’s really, really freaking shocking.
The next question slips from my lips. “Do you have any children?”
“God, no,” he says, “I’ve made sure of that.”
“You made sure—” I sit up again. “What is that supposed to mean? Did you kill your kids?” I can feel how wide my eyes are.