Famine (The Four Horsemen #3) - Laura Thalassa Page 0,78

“I’ve seen what you always do.” He chops people up, and the mouthier they are, the shittier he makes their deaths.

The Reaper’s eyes cut to me. “It’s almost as though you don’t trust me.”

Gah!

“I don’t trust you! But more importantly, I don’t trust our host—and you shouldn’t either.”

“I don’t.” The Reaper’s voice is icy. He glances at me, and something in my expression catches his attention. He turns to me more fully, his eyes bright with curiosity. “But tell me, little flower: what would you have me do?”

Like the hunter that he is, he’s sighted my own dark thoughts.

I part my lips to speak.

Kill them. Kill them just as you do everyone else.

I can’t force the words out. It’s one thing to see the Reaper kill, it’s another thing to encourage it.

But I want these men to die. There’s no sense denying it.

For the first time since we dismounted, Famine flashes me a wicked smile, looking delighted. “You’ve gotten a taste for blood, haven’t you, little flower?”

“I’m not saying that—”

“Enough.” His voice brokers no argument. “I’m aware of Heitor’s moral depravity. And unlike you, I am the hand of God, which means I choose when and how humans fall.”

This is not going to end well. I just know it.

Not even five minutes after we enter, Famine is already deep in conversation with Heitor’s men, clearly making his will known and going over logistics.

The horseman has made a habit of recruiting terrible men to do his bidding, but so far, those men have been nothing but sellouts and goons. These people, however, these are professional killers; they seem to wear their wickedness like a coat.

A figure steps in front of me, blocking my view of Famine.

“A woman like you shouldn’t concern yourself with this tedious business,” Heitor says.

I glance up and meet the drug lord’s eyes. They’re kind eyes. I wasn’t expecting that—for him to have kind eyes. Not that it means anything. Plenty of men with kind eyes have been rough with me. I think I prefer Famine’s eyes; he has the most truthful gaze of anyone I’ve ever met.

Heitor takes me by the elbow. “Why don’t I show you your rooms?”

Everything about this man agitates me, from his deceptive eyes to his misogynistic attitude to his misleadingly innocent offer.

I glance over at Famine, for once wishing he’d be his usual bossy self and insert himself into my business.

Heitor follows my gaze.

“Surely you don’t need his permission for everything,” he says, reading my look.

“You’d be surprised,” I respond.

“Come, come,” the older man says, tugging my arm and ushering me along. “Famine will be right where you left him.”

I’m used to catering to men’s needs. Perhaps that’s why I let Heitor lead me off without stronger protests.

I rub my arm as we move away from the main room, the voices behind us getting fainter and fainter. Heitor opens a door that leads out to a courtyard.

I step outside, and a moment later, he follows me. The door clicks behind us, sounding so loud. Or maybe it’s just my senses that are heightened now that I’m alone with the drug lord.

His arm moves to my back, and he places his palm disturbingly low—just above the curve of my ass.

My eyes flash to his, but he’s busy looking ahead, as though nothing is amiss.

“This way,” he says, pressing me on.

We cross the courtyard with its manicured gardens, skirting around a decorative pond before entering another wing of the estate.

“How does a woman like you get tangled up with a man like the Reaper?” Heitor asks casually.

I feel my throat bob as I look at him. He’s still staring straight ahead.

I bet you would hurt me in bed. Much of what I’ve learned at the bordello is how to read people.

I lift a shoulder. “Bad circumstances.”

“I’d argue your circumstances are quite good. He hasn’t killed you, after all.”

Now Heitor looks at me, and a chill slips down my spine. His eyes are kind—cold and kind. It sets my nerves on edge.

“He hasn’t.” But others might.

I let the last unspoken part of the sentence linger in the air between us.

Rocha stares at me a little longer, then abruptly, he stops, turning to a door I didn’t notice.

“Ah,” he says. “Here we are. Your room.”

He opens the door, and I peer inside, half thinking that this whole thing is a trap and I’m about to die. But Heitor did lead me to a bedroom, a very feminine one. It has paintings of beautiful women set in