Famine (The Four Horsemen #3) - Laura Thalassa Page 0,80

guard responds. “I’m sure he regrets his absence.”

“Does he now?” Famine says.

The two men stare each other down. Eventually, the corner of the Reaper’s mouth curls into a lopsided smile. “You will find me Heitor, and you will bring him back here. He and I are to have a little chat.”

My stomach dips again at the thought of one of Rocha’s own men forcing their boss to do something. From everything I’ve heard, loyalty is a big deal in cartels. But Famine’s wrath is barely leashed as it is. And I’m in the crosshairs of it all.

The Reaper sits forward as the man leaves the room, and he begins serving himself. When I don’t follow suit, Famine serves me as well.

“I can’t tell you how refreshing it is to sit next to you and not get bombarded with all your petty thoughts,” Famine says, pouring us both a glass of wine. Setting the bottle down, he picks up his glass.

I glance at the horseman. I’ve been distracted today, it’s true. Distracted by our violent entrance into São Paulo, by Famine’s barely muzzled brutality, and by Heitor’s unsolicited touch.

Before I know exactly what I’m doing, I stand.

The Reaper reaches out and places a hand over mine. “Stay.”

“Is that an order or a request?” I say. I don’t know if it’s something in the water, but like Rocha, I don’t really want to follow orders at the moment.

The horseman thins his eyes at me. “Would it make a difference?” he asks, his words sharp.

I stare at him for an extra beat.

It would. It does.

And today I don’t want to play games.

Slipping my hand out from under his, I begin to leave.

I think the horseman’s going to call on Heitor’s men to stop me.

Instead, he says, “If that’s the way you feel about it, then it’s a request.”

I stop and take a deep breath. I know Famine conceding anything is a big deal, and maybe on another day I’d be satisfied with his response, but after Heitor’s ass-grab, I’m fucking over being forced to fit into roles men have cut out for me.

“For this to work—truly work—you’re going to have to respect me,” I say, my back still to the horseman.

“A tall order from a human,” he responds.

I’m not angry, but I’ve had enough. I begin moving towards the exit again.

“But I suppose I can make an exception for you,” he adds.

I glance back at Famine, annoyance simmering just beneath my skin. But the Reaper’s eyes are full of mirth. He’s being playful, and for once playful doesn’t involve someone dying.

It’s that look, more than anything, that convinces me to stay. Not that I’m great company at the moment.

I all but stomp back to my seat.

“You’re in a fine mood tonight,” he remarks.

“You’re one to talk,” I snap back at him.

“My mood is great—or it will be, once I eviscerate our host.”

There’s a stretch of silence, then Famine adds, “You’re still upset that I let Heitor live, aren’t you?”

What’s the use lying? I am upset, and I am beyond caring if that makes me a shitty person.

“Among other things,” I say.

Famine raises his eyebrows, looking absurdly delighted. “Oh, there are other things you’re also upset about? How very fascinating. What a magic trick it is to earn a woman’s ire without trying at all.”

I glare at my plate. “God, you would make a fantastic human. You’d fit right in with the rest of my clients.”

“Watch your words.”

“Why?” I challenge, now turning my blazing gaze back on the horseman. “What could you possibly do to me that hasn’t already been done before? I’m tired of watching my words and watching my actions. I’m fucking done being careful so that other people don’t have to be.”

Abruptly I stand and pick up my delicate wine glass. I don’t know what I’m doing until I cock back my arm and throw it at the far wall. Glass shatters on impact and wine splatters across the embellished wallpaper, dripping down its length.

It feels good to destroy Rocha’s things, things that probably cost a fortune and that Famine is enjoying at the moment. It feels so good in fact that, caught up in the moment, I grab the tablecloth and yank it hard, sending food and dinnerware careening everywhere. Porcelain plates fall to the floor, shattering as they dump their contents. The sound of all that finery breaking is music to my ears. I can’t find it in myself to feel bad for my actions. Not today and not