Famine (The Four Horsemen #3) - Laura Thalassa Page 0,136

no from me.”

I think about Martim, how he promised me marriage, then broke his promise and my heart in the process.

That’s not happening again.

At my words, Famine rears back. “No?”

“I want an actual proposal,” I continue, staring down at him from the saddle. “With sex. The ring is optional. Groveling is a must.”

“Groveling?” He lets out an incredulous laugh. “I’m not a dog begging for scraps.”

“Nope, right now you’re a dog with zero scraps. I want sex, a pledge of your undying love—”

“Now it’s a pledge of my undying love?”

“That goes without saying,” I reply as townspeople begin to approach us.

The Reaper looks irked.

“You’ve gone down on me,” I say, “so you’re already an old hand at this groveling business.”

An older man who’s approaching us overhears my comment, and much to my delight, he looks properly scandalized.

“That was not groveling.” Famine’s jaw clenches.

“I don’t know why you’re so horrified,” I say, ignoring his comment. “You’ve literally held me as I peed,” I say. That’s about as horrifying as a situation can get. “I might’ve even gotten some on your shoe.”

Judging by the tick in Famine’s cheek, I definitely got some pee on his shoe.

Before he can respond, the older man and several other townspeople close in on us. They carry blankets and tallow candles and jugs of oil and liquor and milk and pottery and jewelry and baskets of eggs.

“Marry me,” Famine says, ignoring them as he stares up at me.

My breath catches for an instant. “No.”

He looks greatly annoyed. I’m beyond gleeful.

“This isn’t over,” he vows.

I sincerely hope not.

By sunset, Famine has not only amassed a small kingdom’s worth of goods, he’s also managed to secure us a house. He didn’t even have to kill anyone to get it.

“The woman who lived here died, and her children weren’t able to sell the place,” one of the townspeople told me earlier, when she was giving me a walk-through of the previously boarded-up home.

I understand why no one wanted the place. Not only was it built before the apocalypse—and thus full of relics that are useless at best, and dangerous at worst—but as far as practicality goes, it seems like it’s more work than it’s worth.

It still has a garage full of rusted out cars, and kitchen appliances that are filled with cobwebs and rat droppings, and sinks with faucets that haven’t moved water in more than a decade.

At least the toilets have been updated.

Around me, half a dozen people bustle by, sweeping floors, removing moldy linens and shaggy curtains.

Beyond them, Famine stands with his arms folded, listening to some woman, a bored expression on his face.

The horseman must feel me watching, because he glances in my direction.

His eyes brighten when he sees me. “My little flower. Do you like it?” he calls, gesturing to the room around us. It’s a genuine question, and God, but he actually looks hopeful, like his happiness rests upon my answer.

I cut across the room towards him. “You’ve really manipulated your way into getting us the best house,” I say, even though this is not the best house by a long shot.

The horseman flashes me a sly grin as I approach him. “Would you rather we stay in a different house? I’m sure any of the families here would be happy to be kicked out of their homes so that we could move in. That’s always an option.”

People are still cleaning the room around us, but now many of them stiffen a little.

I suppress a shudder. “Thank you, no,” I say.

I step into Famine’s space. “You mentioned earlier that you were trying something new,” I say. I gesture to the house around us. “How is this new?”

Famine often asks people for offerings and places to stay. To me, this is the same gimmick he’s always pulled.

The horseman pulls me into him. “You’ll see,” he whispers against my ear.

There’s a chair nearby. Famine snags it, dragging it over. He sits down in it, pulling me down along with him.

“Let me go, Famine,” I say, as he props me on his lap.

“No,” he says casually, reaching out to play with one of my curls.

“I’m serious.” This situation—Famine sitting in a chair like some sort of king—has always preceded terrible things. I don’t want to be here to watch.

“As am I,” he says.

Anxiety builds in my veins.

He runs a finger down my arm. “Relax,” he breathes against my ear.

But I can’t relax.

“What are you going to do to them?” I ask, my voice low so that the people