Famine (The Four Horsemen #3) - Laura Thalassa Page 0,58
arm, but he hesitates when he hears my hitched breathing.
“Are you … frightened?” His voice is so low it makes me shiver.
“You sound delighted,” I say.
Okay, maybe not delighted, but definitely curious.
“I’ll be delighted when you actually stop fighting my every decision,” he replies, ripping apart my second makeshift shackle.
I shake my wrists out, trying to get the blood flowing back into them. “Then you’ll be delighted when I’m dead.”
“I’ll be relieved when you’re dead,” he says, gently moving my injured arm back to my side. The movement makes it throb something fierce. “You make even an immortal’s head pound.”
I scoff, sitting up as Famine grabs something from the bed. A moment later, some article of clothing hits me.
“What the—? Did you just throw—?”
“Put the dress on.”
“The dress?” I pick up the wadded up garment and shake it out. “Wait, what? Why?”
The Reaper sighs dramatically. For an evil motherfucker, he is so over-the-top with the theatrics.
“Must you question everything?” he says. “Because I said so.”
I set the article of clothing aside. “Unless you force it on me yourself, I’m not wearing a damn dress.”
The truth is, I could put the dress on; it would probably look less ridiculous than the oversized, travel-stained nightgown I’m wearing, but fuck this horseman and his demands.
Famine gives another long-suffering sigh. “Last time I’m going to ask nicely: Put. It. On.”
“No.”
In the darkness I swear I see that evil little smile of his make an appearance. “Fine.”
Fine?
I’m perplexed, even as he approaches me. But then he pulls his dagger from his belt.
“What are you—?”
He grabs my dress by the collar, and—riiiip. He drags the blade down the fabric. As he does so, the material parts, revealing my flesh beneath.
“What the hell are you doing?” I almost sound scandalized.
“That was your only dress, wasn’t it?” Famine says, like the asshole he is. “Pity it’s ruined. Now, put the fucking dress on.”
“You think I care about exposing myself?” I do. “I’ll walk around bare-breasted before I put—”
“Your shoes are going next.” He reaches for my boots, his blade still poised.
“Okay—okay!” I say, mostly because it’s hard to come by a decent set of shoes these days. “I hate you, but okay,” I mutter.
I grab the dress as he watches me with steely eyes. I know he’s not going to leave, so I don’t bother asking him to. I’ve lost enough power plays today as it is.
Slipping off the bed, I shuck off the remains of my nightgown then shake out the dress, trying to determine what it looks like. It seems to be wine colored, but I can’t be sure in the growing darkness. It has enough glittery pieces to it that I can tell it’s something ostentatious.
A line of buttons run up the back of the dress, and I have to pause to unbutton each one. Once the opening is wide enough, I step into the dress. I pull it up, feeling the beaded bodice and the ruffled skirt that’s cut high in the front and low in the back. It’s a little loose, but it works well enough.
All at once I have a flashback to my nights at the bordello, wearing dresses that cinched up the back, rouging my face in front of my vanity.
I’m getting pretty again, and I’m actually not too fond of that fact.
“Happy?” I say sullenly, turning to the horseman.
“Mmm.” He makes a noncommittal sound.
“You’ll need to button it for me.”
“Do it yourself,” he throws back.
“I can’t reach the buttons, Mr. I’ve-never-worn-a-fucking-dress-before-and-have-no-idea-how-one-actually-works.”
He glares at me.
“Or—I could not wear it,” I add.
After a moment, he approaches me. “Where are they?”
“The buttons?” I reply. “Down my back—along my spine.”
Famine tosses his dagger onto the bed, freeing up his hands. Gruffly he grabs my good shoulder and turns me around so my back is facing him. I feel the brush of his fingertips as he pulls the material together. Clumsily, the Reaper tries and tries again to get the small cloth-covered buttons through the little loop openings that edge the fabric. My stomach tightens at his touch, and I can’t help but feel his breath as it stirs the hair against my neck.
I should not be reacting this way to him—not when he literally just untied me from the bed.
A hundred and twenty years later, the Reaper finishes buttoning me up. I pull out the hair that’s inadvertently gotten tucked into the dress and I turn around.