War (The Four Horsemen #2) - Laura Thalassa Page 0,135

even if it startles me.

I made love to the horseman. It’s thrilling and terrifying all at once.

He slips out of me and pulls me to him, and for a brief moment, things feel comfortable between us once more.

But the comfortable moment starts to drift away when I realize that War is still staring at me, his gaze caught somewhere between want and wonder.

“I have never felt that way before,” he finally admits. “What are you doing to me, wife?”

I shake my head. I don’t know what either of us is doing.

“I cannot unknow this feeling,” War continues. “You were right. Love is far more than longing. It’s far more than anything I imagined.”

Chapter 48

The next morning I wake to extreme nausea.

I slip out of War’s embrace as slyly as I can and shove a shirt and pants on. There’s no time for bras, underwear and shoes. I scramble barefoot out of the tent.

Luckily, War’s tent is on the edge of camp, and I manage to make it to the outskirts before I sick myself, over and over.

Now that my zombie guards are gone, there’s no one to witness this, except for maybe one guard in the distance, but he’s too far away to get a good look at me.

Once I’m finished, I stagger a little ways away, then sit down hard on the ground, running my hands through my hair.

My mind is quiet for a long time—so quiet, in fact, that when a thought slips in, it feels very, very loud.

My period should’ve come by now.

I take several deep breaths, even as my heart begins to race.

I try to count off the weeks since I last bled, and I think I get as far back as six before I become unsure.

We’ve done a lot of moving. It’s hard to keep track of the days here … but no, I think that even assuming I over-counted, my period should still be here.

My unease now pools low in my gut.

I pinch my temples and breathe slowly in and out.

Don’t panic, don’t panic. There must be some simple explanation.

Maybe it’s the stress of all this traveling and the constant war. Maybe my body is in shock. Maybe that has simply delayed my period.

I almost relax. The explanation is nearly plausible.

Just as I’m about to stand up, another loud thought drifts in. I try to shut it out. I try to ignore it, but it’s right there, sitting in front of me, unwilling to be overlooked.

How many times has War been in you?

My hands are beginning to shake.

Fuck, I think I am starting to panic.

The nausea, the awful way food tastes and smells, the fatigue that’s plagued me, and the missed period—none of it is normal.

I cover my eyes with a shaky hand.

How many times has War been in you?

Dozens of times. He’s been in me dozens and dozens of times.

Dear God, I-I might be pregnant.

Stress could be an explanation for the fatigue and the late period, but not the food aversions. Not the nausea.

I could simply be sick. I really could, but …

Pregnancy is a more logical explanation.

I drop my hand from my eyes. For a long time I sit there in the foliage at the edge of camp, caught between horror and laughter.

This is what happens when people have sex, Miriam. Particularly sex with super virile god-men.

I put my head in my hands.

Pregnant. I might actually be pregnant. With War’s kid.

Holy balls.

The longer I think about it, the more certain I grow.

A horseman of the apocalypse knocked me up.

A disbelieving laugh slips out of me … then another little laugh slips out. I begin to laugh in earnest. I don’t know when exactly my laughter turns into sobs, only that eventually I can feel tears slipping between my fingers and my body is heaving.

I’ve been crying for maybe five minutes when I hear those familiar, powerful footfalls approach me from behind.

“Wife,” War says, his voice shocked. “What are you doing out here?”

I want to curl in on myself and die. I can’t even have a moment alone to process this?

“Miriam,” he says, coming around to my front, his voice thick with concern.

He kneels next to me and pulls my hands from my face. His gaze passes over me, like maybe I might be injured.

“What happened?” he says. “Did someone hurt you?”

Now my sobs morph back into laughter—sad laughter. My mournful eyes go to his. What am I supposed to say?

War and I hadn’t really talked about children—not except for that one conversation