Famine (The Four Horsemen #3) - Laura Thalassa Page 0,98
to the tub. “Sit.”
“I’m the one who gives the orders,” he says.
As if I could ever forget.
Sauntering over to him, I swat his butt. “Sit.”
He flashes me a withering look, and God but I’m used to men actually liking this shit. It’s weird to realize all over again that the horseman isn’t most men.
But … Famine does sit, slowly leaning his back against the tub even as he glares at me. I turn off the water and make my way around the basin.
There’s a bench behind him, presumably where a servant might sit and help the occupant bathe. I grab a washcloth and a bar of soap and seat myself on that bench.
“Am I supposed to be enjoying this?” the Reaper says, grumpy as fuck, his back to me.
Hiking up my filmy dress, I scoot in close behind the horseman, adjusting myself so that my feet are dipped in the tub and Famine’s torso is cradled between my thighs.
At the press of my legs, I feel the horseman tense.
Leaning down, I dip the washcloth into the water. On my way back up, I say softly into his ear. “You might, if you’d actually let yourself.”
And then I drag the cloth down his chest.
He grabs one of my legs, presumably to remove it and the rest of me from his vicinity.
“Believe it or not,” I say conversationally, “I’m not trying to seduce you.”
Not that I would mind …
The thought slips in, unbidden.
“I didn’t think you were,” Famine says. His hand is still on my leg, and he still seems like he’s going to push me away, but he doesn’t do anything for a moment.
I dip the washcloth back in the water, some of my hair brushing against the horseman’s neck and shoulder as I do so.
“Then why won’t you relax?” I say, continuing to run the cloth up and down his chest, trying not to let my mind linger on just how appealing he is.
“I don’t like—” He seems to stop himself, then exhales. “I don’t want you to take care of me.”
I move to his arms, cleaning the good one, my eyes catching on the green glyphs that wrap around his wrists like shackles.
“Has anyone ever taken care of you?” I ask, my tone light.
“I don’t need anyone to,” he says, and I can hear the frown in his voice.
I don’t say anything right way, instead picking up his injured arm and gently running the washcloth over the fully healed area.
“Everyone needs to be taken care of,” I finally say, dipping the cloth into the water.
“Not my kind.”
“Especially your kind.”
Famine turns to look at me, the injury above his eye still red, and I use the movement to catch his jaw. I let him study my features as I bring the cloth to his face. This close to him, I appreciate just how savagely pretty he is. Pretty and feral.
Using great care, I wipe around the edges of the wound. As I do so, I feel Famine’s hand slide up my leg, then down it, the action drawing out goosebumps.
That all ends the moment my washcloth touches his open wound.
He hisses at the touch, trying to jerk his head away. But between my hold on his jaw and my legs pinning him in place, there’s nowhere for him to go.
Apparently, this injury isn’t as healed as I assumed it was.
“Stop it,” he grates out, his fingers squeezing my leg.
“Just—hold still,” I say, my attention on the wound.
He doesn’t, instead trying to shake off my hold like a wild cat.
“Oh, for fuck’s sake, stop it,” I say, gripping his jaw tighter. It’s not like Famine can’t handle the pain. That’s exactly what he’s been doing for the last twelve hours. And this is nothing compared to what he endured.
The horseman’s eyes flash and his gaze thins, but he listens to me.
Methodically, I finish cleaning his wound, then the rest of his face.
He watches me as I work, frowning deeply. But after a minute or so, he resettles.
I move from his face to his hair, setting the cloth aside to run my fingers through his caramel locks. At my touch he closes his eyes, and I feel a spark of satisfaction that even horsemen enjoy a good head rub.
“You haven’t reacted to my nudity,” he says, out of nowhere.