Famine (The Four Horsemen #3) - Laura Thalassa Page 0,50
Reaper’s searing look in the darkness.
My injury throbs, dragging my attention away from the conversation.
I try to get to my feet. After a moment, the Reaper takes my good arm and stands, pulling me up along with him.
“What now?” I ask.
“You need to sleep.”
Oh. Right. In between breaking into some old lady’s house and diverting her death, I somehow forgot Famine’s entire reason for stopping.
I let the horseman lead me to the back room. Usually I’m the one leading the opposite sex back to a bedroom. Usually I’m the one with a plan.
Famine stops at the threshold and lets me walk into this stranger’s bedroom. The air here is heavy with the smell of cloying perfume, and though it’s too dark to tell, I think the room is loaded with kitschy little trinkets, because twice I bump into furniture that sends several items rattling.
I have to feel around for the bed, and even once I find it, some combination of guilt and trepidation tightens my stomach because its rightful owner is somewhere out in the darkness.
You idiot, Ana. You should’ve known this situation would arise. It’s what happened last night, after all.
The Reaper is watching me, so mechanically, I pull the covers back and slide into the bed. The sheets are damp from the humidity, and they have an old, musty smell to them. I make a face, even as I settle in.
I mean, technically, it isn’t the worst bed I’ve ever slept in, and it’s better than the accommodations that old woman is going to get tonight.
Once I’m laying down, Famine retreats from the room.
I lie there in the darkness a long time, staring at the ceiling. I keep waiting for sleep to come, but my shoulder still throbs, and besides, I’m wired from the last hour.
In the room beyond mine, I can hear the horseman striding back and forth, back and forth. It should be lulling, but he sounds so damn agitated.
“Will you stop that?” I finally call out.
The footsteps pause.
“I should be on the road right now,” he says.
“I wasn’t the one who decided to stop,” I say.
Now those footsteps approach the bedroom. In the darkness I see his massive silhouette in the doorway, his scythe still in his hand.
“Ungrateful human.” His voice sends a shiver through me. “I should force you back onto my horse and continue riding.”
“You are so unnecessarily dramatic,” I say. I pat the mattress. “Just sit down for a second. I can’t sleep listening to your pacing.”
This may come as a shock, but Famine doesn’t, in fact, sit down. He just continues to loom in that doorway.
With a huff, I throw my blankets off and get up.
“What are you doing?” he demands.
Instead of answering him, I cross the room and grab the Reaper’s hand, pulling him forward, towards the bed. Much to my shock, he actually lets me lead him into the room.
When I get to the mattress, I push him down with my good arm. Now, however, he does resist.
“I am not interested in sex, little flower,” he says. There’s a note in his voice that raises my gooseflesh.
“I wasn’t offering anything, you big brute,” I say smoothly. “Now, sit.” I push against his armor again.
I can perfectly imagine his insolent frown. Reluctantly, he bends his knees and perches on the edge of the bed.
“Happy?” he growls.
“Stop pouting,” I say, getting on the bed as well. “Can you see me in the dark?” I ask after a moment, feeling oddly exposed.
“Would it matter?” he grumbles.
I wave my hand in front of his face.
“What are you doing?”
“You can’t see me,” I say, slightly triumphant.
“What is the point of me sitting here?” He begins to get up, but I catch his arm and pull him back down.
Before he can get up again, I begin tugging at his armor with my one good arm.
Something I’ve learned as a sex worker is the true nature of clothes. We wear our garments like masks. Take them off, and you strip a person of their pretenses. That’s what I want to do now—strip the horseman of his pretenses, whatever they might be.
Beneath my touch, his body goes rigid.
“What are you doing?” Famine asks again, this time more alarmed.
“Calm your tits. I’m not trying to deflower you.”
At least, not tonight.
That last wayward thought steals my breath.
What the hell, Ana? Sex with the monster is off the table … or on it, depending on whether there are platters of food nearby …