Famine (The Four Horsemen #3) - Laura Thalassa Page 0,66

me, looking like he’s about to say something. Instead, he walks back to the door and kicks it shut with his booted heel. Then he wheels about, unholstering his scythe and tossing it on the bed.

“I’ll leave when I want to leave,” he says.

Anger makes my face flush. “Get out.”

He stalks forward, ignoring my words altogether. “You look at me like I’m a monster, but I’m not the one who spent years inflicting torture on a helpless prisoner. The horrors I endured—”

“You think I don’t know pain?” I say over him. My voice comes out louder and angrier than I intend. “I lost both my parents by the time I was a teenager, my aunt abused me, and my cousins did nothing to stop her, but that didn’t prevent me from mourning them all when you killed my entire town.

“And then, left with nothing, I had to fend for myself, and I consider myself lucky that my madam was the one who found me.

“I was seventeen when I started to sell my body. Seventeen. Still just a teenager.”

I step forward as I talk, closing the distance between us. “You think I don’t know pain? Degradation? I could sit here all night telling you about the horrors I’ve endured—the clients who beat me, who raped me, who told me I was worthless all while using me. Just because it hasn’t completely broken me doesn’t mean I don’t understand all the ways we can hurt one another.

“So don’t act like you invented pain. It’s an insult to the rest of us.”

The more I talk, the more Famine’s anger seems to drain from his face. By the time I finish—my chest heaving with my emotions, angry tears pricking at my eyes—his expression is almost soft.

You’ve felt it too, his face seems to say. The horror of suffering. He looks both comforted and oddly devastated by that.

“See?” he says quietly. “Look how awful your kind is, that they would hurt their young. Tell me I am not justified in killing them all.”

I level him a long look. “You’re not justified in killing us all.”

He takes a step forward, his armor brushing against my chest.

“And what do you think I am justified to do, little flower?”

“Leave us be. If we’re awful and doomed to die, we’ll kill ourselves off. If we’re not, then we won’t.” As I speak, one of those angry tears of mine slips out. Hopefully the last one. I’m tired of crying in front of this man.

The Reaper reaches up a hand. He pauses for a moment, staring at that tear, then he wipes it away.

I don’t know what to make of this situation—or of him for that matter. Not two hours ago he gruesomely killed an entire warehouse full of people. Tomorrow he’ll probably finish off the rest of the city. Why is he bothering to be gentle with me? What’s the point?

Famine is still standing way too close, and for a moment, his gaze drops to my lips.

It’s a shock to see the obvious hunger in his eyes.

I know that look.

But just when I think he might act on whatever heated thoughts are running through his head, he takes my hand and leads me out of the room and into the living room, where a large fire roars in the fireplace. He moves us over to it.

“Sit,” he says.

I scowl, but I do as he says.

The Reaper releases my hand, heading into the dimly lit kitchen. He’s gone long enough for me to turn my attention to the fire.

I twist my hair, squeezing the water from the curly locks.

I’m still soaking wet, but the fire more than makes up for the slight chill.

Famine returns with a pitcher, a basin, and a cloth. He comes to my side and sets the items down.

“What are you doing?” I ask.

“You’re hurt.”

I do in fact have dozens of little cuts from the nasty plant I was restrained in. And then there’s my injured shoulder.

“Why do you care?” I say.

“I don’t know.” He frowns as he speaks.

The Reaper pours the water from the pitcher into the basin, and dips the cloth in. Then, taking my arm, he begins to clean my wounds, brushing the washcloth over the small, bleeding puncture marks that dot my skin.

This is ridiculous.

I try to withdraw my hand, but the horseman holds it fast, refusing to stop, and I’m left watching him work.

Methodically, he cleans one of my arms, then the other, being extra diligent with my shoulder wound. He then