Famine (The Four Horsemen #3) - Laura Thalassa Page 0,35
really want to hold me up, but somehow they manage to.
“What do you want?” I say. My voice wavers.
“What, no sexual innuendos?” Famine says, tossing his scythe onto the bed, the blood from the blade smearing onto the comforter.
I press my lips together. Several people just died. I can’t wrap my mind around his casualness.
All this time I was trying to get under his skin, and instead, Famine got under mine. He knows it, too. Sick shit that he is, he’s enjoying the moment.
“You’ve been telling me that I had to put something in your mouth to get you to shut up, but it appears all I needed to do is kill a few people,” he says. “How fortunate for me, since I happen to be in the business of death.”
I shudder and turn away from him, moving over to the window. I can’t see anything outside; the darkness is absolute.
I exhale, my breath shaky. “The day I saved you—do you know why I did it?” I ask, glancing over my shoulder at him.
“I don’t care why you did it,” Famine says, and yet I can see that beautiful face of his turned in my direction, waiting for me to finish my thought.
“I couldn’t stand the thought that someone could hurt another person the way you were hurt.”
“I’m not a person, Ana. I’m a horseman.”
“Do you think that made a difference in my mind?”
He has nothing to say to that.
I turn back to the window, not wanting to look at Famine or the blood that’s splattered across his bronze armor.
A moment later, he comes up to my side. Out of the corner of my eye, I see him reach into his black trousers and pull out a key. The Reaper grabs my wrists and begins unlocking the manacles.
“You’re taking me out of the cuffs?” I ask.
“Would you prefer I didn’t?” he asks, arching an eyebrow.
I don’t say anything to that.
He finishes unlocking the thick iron shackles, and I roll my wrists. In some spots, the skin has been rubbed raw.
“I thought you didn’t trust me,” I say suspiciously.
“I don’t,” Famine agrees. “But what can you really do at this point?”
“I could hurt you,” I say, my gaze flinty. I think I would really enjoy sinking another blade into the Reaper right about now.
Famine looks downright tickled at the thought. “And chance suffering my wrath? I think not,” he says. “Though I welcome your attempts—meager as they’ve so far proven to be.”
“I thought you said I was safe with you,” I remind him.
“You are. I don’t plan on hurting you if you don’t hurt me.”
Begrudgingly I admit that’s fair.
“And if I run?” I ask.
“Your attempts at escape have been even worse than your attempts at murder,” he says, stepping in close.
I can’t help it, my breath hitches at the sight of him.
“But humor me, little flower,” he continues. “Run. Go back to your poor, abandoned city, and live in your empty whorehouse. Try to earn a living again selling yourself to dead men and enjoy what scraps of moldering food escaped my reach. I’m sure you will live a long and prosperous life.”
As he speaks, my hate rises, closing up my throat. I stare up at him. He’s standing far too close to me. Only my clients ever got this close, but then it was for entirely different reasons.
Famine’s gaze searches mine. “No, you won’t run,” he says. “Because running takes a certain level of courage that you utterly lack.”
My palm comes up before I can help it, and I slap him across the cheek. I can feel the sting of contact against my skin. The Reaper’s head snaps to the side.
In the moment that follows, neither of us does anything. I’m breathing heavily, and the horseman’s face is turned away from me.
Slowly, his hand comes up, and he touches his cheek. He lets out a laugh, and the hairs along my arms stand up.
This man just killed three people, and I went and hit him.
Faster than I can follow, he grabs my jaw. “You foolish little flower. Have you learned nothing?” As he speaks, he walks forward, backing me up until I hit the wall. Once there, I’m pinned in. “Maybe you are courageous after all to tempt my anger.”
His eyes dip to my mouth, and in the midst of his hate-fueled rant, I see something flare in those unearthly green eyes.
His gaze moves up to mine, and there’s a zing of connection. “Or maybe you believe you’re above punishment.”