Famine (The Four Horsemen #3) - Laura Thalassa Page 0,43

growls, his eyes ablaze. “I came to your world to end your kind because of the evil that lives in you all.”

“It lives in you, too,” I snap back.

He scowls at me for a long moment. Abruptly, he drops his legs from the table and stands, staring down at me. I’m struck again by how ridiculously, exquisitely handsome this monster is.

“Maybe you’re right. Maybe I am evil. I was made in your image, after all.”

He pushes away from me then, upending my plate on his way out.

Chapter 17

The next day, I’ve only just gotten out of bed when my door is thrown open, the wood banging against the wall.

Famine stands at the threshold, his armor on and his scythe in hand, looking all sorts of agitated. So, essentially, same as always.

“Let’s go,” Famine says, jerking his head over his shoulder.

“Good morning to you too,” I say, biting back a yawn as I stretch.

“Ana, let’s. Go.”

What in the world is the rush?

“I need shoes first,” I say, lifting a dirty foot. I could probably also use another bath, but I doubt I’ll be getting one any time soon.

“So you can run away?” he says skeptically. “I think not.”

I sigh. “I thought we had made some progress on the imprisonment front last night.” He had removed my shackles, after all. I thought that was a step in the right direction. “Notice I didn’t run?”

I did, however, collect every knife I could find in the kitchen and I hid them in various parts of the house. In this room alone, I have two under my mattress, two more in the closet, and another one in the top drawer of the bedside table.

Just in case.

“Am I supposed to be impressed by that? We already went over the fact that there is nowhere for you to go.”

True.

“That hasn’t stopped you from worrying I will run,” I say smoothly.

“You are prone to stupid decisions—”

“My stupid decisions once saved your life.”

“I would’ve regenerated anyway.”

I glare at him.

He glares back.

I fold my arms. “Where’s the girl?” I ask, still not moving towards him. The girl from yesterday, the one whose father heartlessly gave her away to the horseman. Last I saw of her, she was being carted away to one of this home’s bedrooms. It’s bothered me ever since, all the horrors he might’ve inflicted on her.

“What girl?” the horseman asks, momentarily distracted from our argument.

“The one you spared,” I say euphemistically.

The Reaper’s brows pull together, and I spend a traitorous moment enjoying how pretty he is. Don’t get me wrong, he’s still an asshole, and I wouldn’t fuck him unless I was especially desperate—or you know, the whole blowjob-for-humanity bit. But he is pretty.

Famine’s brow smooths. “Ah, yes,” he says. “I almost forgot.”

And then he walks away.

That’s … not an answer. And that’s definitely not the end of the conversation.

“What happened to her?” I press, rushing after him.

“You humans are such curious, conniving creatures,” he says ahead of me, striding down the hall.

“Did you rape her?” I ask. “Kill her?”

“This conversation is almost as boring as she was,” the Reaper says, not bothering to turn to me.

“‘Was’?” I say. “So you did kill her?” My stomach bottoms out, but of course he did. That’s what Famine does.

The Reaper doesn’t answer, and I’m left to imagine all sorts of horrible scenarios in my head.

I follow Famine out the front door. I can still hear low moans coming from the backyard, but I see no one—dead or alive.

Famine whistles, and a minute later his horse comes galloping out of seemingly nowhere, its hooves clacking against the broken asphalt.

I halt in my tracks. “Wait. Are we … leaving?”

Already?

“There’s nothing more I need to do here,” the Reaper says as his horse comes to a stop in front of him.

Famine turns to me and, grabbing me by the waist, hoists me into the saddle. A moment later, he joins me.

“Wait-wait-wait,” I say, “I haven’t even had breakfast, and I need my things!”

“You don’t have things,” the horseman says calmly. He clicks his tongue, and his horse begins to trot away from the house.

I glance over my shoulder forlornly. “Not anymore.” Goodbye, knives.

I face forward again. “Did you already kill off your guards?” I ask as we begin to wind our way through the city.

“I was tempted to,” he admits, “but no. I sent them off last night.”

“Why?” I ask, half turning my head.

“I hate getting blood on my clothes.”

I shut my eyes against the image. “No—I wasn’t asking why you spared