Famine (The Four Horsemen #3) - Laura Thalassa Page 0,77

your knees,” the horseman says.

Heitor gives him a blank look. “I don’t understand.”

“On your knees,” Famine repeats.

Reluctantly, Rocha lowers himself.

The Reaper extends his scythe towards Heitor, causing the cartel boss to rear back a little.

“Kiss the blade and swear your allegiance,” Famine says.

Heitor hesitates, and now I see his pride. He hadn’t anticipated this sort of debasement.

After a moment, he leans forward and kisses the blade as best he can.

Once he’s done, he glances up at Famine, eyebrows raised as though to say, are you satisfied? His lip bleeds a little from where he must’ve nicked it.

“Now, your men,” the Reaper says.

Heitor glances over at his men, who have hung back since disentangling themselves from Famine’s plants. Rocha stands, gesturing for the others to come over.

I can see their anger burning in their eyes as they head towards the horseman. I don’t know these men, but considering they personally know Heitor, they must be powerful men in their own right. And Famine is making a mockery of that power.

One by one, Heitor’s men get down on their knees and kiss Famine’s scythe. The Reaper makes no move to steady his weapon as they pledge their allegiance, and by the end of the ordeal, many of the men have bloody faces.

Once the last man stands, the Reaper’s brutal eyes cut to me. Right now I can see how close to the surface his violence is. He beckons me forward with his hand.

Damnit, I have to actually do something.

I move slowly off the horse, barely making a fool of myself this time when I dismount—thank God. Behind me, Famine’s steed walks off; clomping across the driveway before heading off into the dead fields around us.

Even the horse has the good sense to make himself scarce.

I cross the expansive courtyard, to where the horseman waits. I have the attention of the entire gathering, and my skin crawls from it. Don’t get me wrong, under the right circumstances, I preen under excessive attention. But these are not the right circumstances, and the looks I’m receiving now range from I-want-to-hate-bang-you to fuck-you-demon-whore.

What a group of fine gentlemen.

I sidle up to the Reaper’s side, and his hand goes to my uninjured shoulder.

Famine’s gaze moves to the mansion. “This is our house now.”

Our house?

Also, what the hell, Famine? As if the target on my back wasn’t already big enough.

“You will all serve us,” the horseman continues. “And I expect you”—he points his scythe at Heitor—“to personally bring me dinner. And to draw my bath. And,” he squeeze’s my shoulder, “my companion’s.”

Jesus. If there was ever a time not to rile a human up, now would be it. But it’s like the horseman is deliberately baiting the kingpin, hoping he’ll snap under the strain.

“Of course,” Heitor says smoothly. His eyes are frigid, but he smiles as though none of this bothers him. The sight of that empty smile is nearly as chilling as Famine’s own nefarious grin.

I’m going to get my throat slit tonight. I’m sure of it.

Heitor’s eyes settle on me again, moving over my body proprietarily.

“Who is this?” he asks, giving me the same kind of look a client might after they bought me for an evening. Like I’m his to do with as he pleases.

I have to fight back a scowl.

Famine’s gaze moves from Rocha to me. The horseman’s expression doesn’t change, and yet I can see him weighing his words.

Finally, he says, “Someone important. Give her the same treatment you’d give me.”

My heart picks up speed at his words, and for a moment, I remember what it was like to press my lips against him and discover that he kisses just as cruelly as he kills.

Famine stares at me for several more seconds, his gaze moving to my lips. I can almost believe that he’s thinking about that kiss, too. The one he was angry about.

“Come inside and we can discuss what it is you’d like me to do for you,” Heitor says, interrupting us.

I blink, turning away from Famine.

The cartel boss retreats towards the mansion, not glancing back to see whether we’re following or not. His men fall into line around him, and it’s clear that despite their bloody lips and pledged allegiance, Rocha is still the man in charge.

Famine starts forward, seemingly oblivious to the situation. I hurry after him.

“What are you doing?” I accuse him, keeping my voice low.

Famine’s face is devoid of emotion. “What I always do.”

“No, this is not what you always do,” I say heatedly, my voice hushed.