Famine (The Four Horsemen #3) - Laura Thalassa Page 0,127

it worked at the bordello. Getting battered by a client didn’t mean any woman got to take the night off.

“You need a doctor,” he insists.

“A needle and thread will be just fine—well, a needle and thread and some strong liquor.” Not that I’m ready for more liquor. My stomach revolts at the thought.

Famine gives me a skeptical look. “You can’t be serious.”

Unfortunately, I am.

By midmorning I’ve washed myself clean and scrubbed out my dress as best I can. I wear the damp outfit in the saddle, my tits basically visible through the wet fabric.

Famine holds me close. I can practically feel him vibrating with anxiety. On the one hand, I’m moved by his reaction. On the other, all that we did last night has been forgotten in the midst of his worry.

We aren’t on the highway for more than fifteen minutes when we come across a small trading post.

The Reaper steers his horse towards it. Before he’s even dismounted, I hear a scuffling noise inside the store, followed by a scream that cuts off sharply.

I suck in a breath. That’s never, ever going to get easier to bear.

Famine hops off the horse.

“Wait here,” he says over his shoulder.

I don’t.

Gingerly, I slide off his steed, biting back a cry when the action tugs at my wound. Not so long ago I struggled to get off this very horse after the Reaper accidently pierced my shoulder with his scythe. The horseman hadn’t fretted over it like he was fretting over this injury. And sure, it was a cleaner wound, and maybe it wasn’t as bad, but still.

Things really are different between us.

Famine sighs when he notices me following. “Ana, you’re hurt.”

“I’m fine,” I say.

“Two words I will never again believe from you.”

I enter the store behind him, wincing a little at the sight of the very obviously dead man who was working behind the counter.

“It’s just a scratch,” I say, moving down one of the aisles.

It’s not just a scratch. I got to look at it in the mirror this morning, and it’s bigger and uglier than I imagined.

Famine guffaws. “Why are you pretending it’s not a big deal?”

“Have you seen my stomach?” I say. “Compared to that, it’s not a big deal.”

“It’s a big deal to me,” the horseman murmurs, his voice so quiet I almost miss it.

I find the first aid section before Famine does. Sitting right there on the top shelf are needles and surgical thread.

“Got it,” I say, grabbing the items. Now I just need to stitch myself up.

This should be fun.

I nibble my lower lip, looking at my wound using a hand mirror I found.

“Maybe we shouldn’t do this,” I say.

The cut looks like it’s still a little dirty, and parts of it appear to have already started to scab over. I don’t know a lot about mending wounds, but I think that sealing up something that could be contaminated is a bad idea.

Famine studies the wound. “So we should do nothing?” He’s clearly displeased at that thought.

“I don’t know. I think if we can douse the cut in alcohol that might help.”

Already, I’m cringing at the thought.

No sooner have I said it, then the horseman heads for the small collection of wines, beer, and some more potent liquor behind the counter, not sparing the dead man next to him a passing glance.

While he’s back there, I grab a glass container of rubbing alcohol from the shelf. I take a deep breath while I look at it.

This is going to hurt.

Famine comes back, holding a bottle of rum and a corkscrew. I let him open the bottle and hand it to me.

Rather than pouring it over my neck, I take a long drink from it, my stomach churning at the taste.

Too soon—much too soon—for more liquor.

I set the rum on a nearby shelf then unstop the rubbing alcohol in my hand, passing it to Famine.

“What’s this?” he asks.

“Rubbing alcohol—to pour on my wound.”

The horseman looks confused. I guess he’s never realized there was a difference between the alcohol human’s drink, and the stuff used purely to disinfect.

“Why are you giving it to me?” he asks.

“I need you to do it. I—I don’t think I have the courage to do it myself.”

Famine scowls at the bottle, then looks at me. Faster than I can follow, he tilts my chin and dumps the rubbing alcohol on the cut.

“Fuck!” I hiss out, my legs nearly folding. “Motherfucking fuck!”

I gasp out a few breaths, eyes pricking at the excruciating burn. It