Famine (The Four Horsemen #3) - Laura Thalassa Page 0,46
must be the early hours of the morning when my eyelids start to close. Then my head lowers. It knocks into my chest, startling me awake.
I thought it would’ve been impossible to get tired while sitting on a horse, but now I can’t seem to keep my eyes open. My chin bumps my chest a couple more times, jostling me awake again and again. Without thinking much about it, I twist a little in the saddle and lean my cheek against Famine’s chilly armor.
And then I drift off.
I feel myself falling when suddenly, Famine catches me, jolting me awake.
“Stay on the horse,” he orders me. He sounds painfully alert, the jerk.
“You stay on the horse,” I mutter, my eyes already closing.
Famine mutters something about no-good humans, but I’m already slipping back into sleep.
I wake again when I fall against the Reaper’s arm.
“Are you trying to hurt yourself?” he demands, and I notice now what I didn’t before—he sounds angry, indignant.
“I’m trying to sleep. This would all be easier with a bed.”
“I’m not stopping,” he says obstinately.
“Trust me, I’m aware of that.”
I resettle, nestling my face close to the crook of his neck. It’s an awkward angle and it puts me closer to the horseman than I care to be, but it’s one of the more comfortable positions.
“What are you doing?” Famine demands. Now he definitely sounds perturbed.
“Sleeping,” I say, my eyes already closing.
I can sense his deep, disapproving frown, but I’m hours and hours beyond caring. Gradually, I feel him relax against me.
I think my body slides a couple more times, but eventually the Reaper’s solid arm comes around me, holding me to him. And then I drift off, and I don’t wake.
When I open my eyes, I’m lying in a bed.
Where the hell am I … ?
I push myself up and glance around, trying to get my bearings.
All at once, the previous evening comes back to me. Riding on Famine’s horse, falling asleep over and over again only to be jostled awake. But at some point I fell asleep and stayed asleep.
And by the looks of it, we must’ve arrived at wherever we were supposed to during that time.
Just as I’m taking in the room, which has a couple cowboy hats hanging on the wall and a bull’s skull mounted above the bed, I hear the sure stride of a familiar set of feet. A moment later Famine enters.
“Did you put me here?” I say by way of greeting.
He gives me a look. “No, my horse did.”
God, he’s so testy. This is why it’s important to get a good night’s sleep. Or laid. Preferably both.
“So you carried me inside this house, to this bedroom, just so I could sleep?”
Famine frowns. “Better the bed than me. You drooled on my armor.”
I vaguely remember how I used him as my own personal pillow.
“Trust me,” I say, “I wasn’t too thrilled about the situation either.”
I glance down at the blankets pooled around my waist, and I raise my eyebrows as a whole new thought hits me. “You tucked me in,” I say, shocked.
“Is that supposed to mean something?” Again with that gruff, angry voice.
My eyes rise to his, and I see it in his own gaze.
Reaper-boy fucked up. He was kind to me, and he knows it.
I break out into a sly smile. “Aww, you don’t really hate me, do you?”
His gaze drops to my mouth, and a muscle in his jaw jumps.
“You nursed me to health once,” he says, “yet still you hate me. Don’t think too much on my small kindnesses.”
Kindnesses. Even he’s aware of what they are.
“Get up,” he says gruffly, “it’s time to go.”
“Wait,” I say. “So we’re not even here?” Wherever here actually is.
He doesn’t answer me.
Famine stopped at some random house and tucked me into bed. All, presumably, so that I could sleep.
I follow Famine out of the room and through the house, the tile floor chilly against my bare feet. I should’ve realized sooner that this wasn’t our final destination. The floorplan is far too small.
I’m so focused on the cozy layout that I don’t notice the blood until I slip in it. I lose my bearings completely and go down. My elbow bangs hard against the floor, and the liquid soaks into my dress.
Just as I’m pushing myself up, my gaze connects with a set of glassy eyes. I barely have time to register that I’m staring at a dead man before I start screaming.