War (The Four Horsemen #2) - Laura Thalassa Page 0,14

people, only stopping once I’m a short distance away from the horseman.

He rises from his seat, and a ripple goes through the crowd. The drums are still pounding, but it seems as though we have the whole camp’s attention.

War steps forward one, two, three steps, leaving his makeshift throne and closing the distance between us until he’s right in front of me.

He studies my features for several seconds and his gaze is so intense I want look away.

Torchlight burns deep in his eyes. Torchlight—and interest.

He doesn’t say anything for so long that I finally break the silence between us. “What do you want?”

“Meokange vago odi degusove.”

I thought you already knew.

He throws my earlier words back at me.

And yeah, I still think I do.

War’s eyes drink in my face. He’s wearing the same strange expression he gave me back in Jerusalem.

After several seconds, he reaches out and brushes a knuckle over my cheekbone, like he just can’t help himself.

I bat his hand away. “You don’t get to touch me,” I say softly.

His eyes narrow.

“Sonu moamsi, mamsomeo, monuinme zio vavabege odi?”

Then tell me, wife, how do I get to touch you?

“You don’t.”

He smiles at me, like I’m charming and quaint and extremely ridiculous in the most endearing way.

“Gocheune dekasuru desvu.”

We’ll see about that.

I back away from the horseman then. He watches me avidly but doesn’t try to call me back to his side. At some point, I turn on my heel, my filmy skirt swishing around my ankles, and melt into the crowd.

I’m almost disappointed. After all that fanfare the women made about presenting me to the horseman, I would’ve thought the mighty War would’ve done more than mutter a few words and gaze at me.

But it’s that gaze that I can still feel against my back like a brand.

I glance over my shoulder and meet those inquisitive, violent eyes. The corner of his mouth curls into a challenging smile.

That’s all it takes for me to do the one thing I hate the most: flee.

I sit like a fool in the near darkness of my tent for several hours. Even from here I can hear the party raging on, and I can smell food cooking.

I would slip out and grab a bite to eat, except that I would then have to show my face. It’s bad enough that I ran, but at least it was some sort of exit. To show back up as though nothing happened …

I can see War’s challenging, taunting gaze. He would enjoy that. He’d think of it as another opening. That’s really what stops me.

The world might be coming to a bloody end, but damn it if I don’t skip a meal just to save face.

So I ignore the smell of meat, and after lighting the small oil lamp Tamar gave me, I read the dog-eared romance novel left in my tent and idly debate how horrible of an idea it would be to burn the camp down.

Amongst all the distant conversation, I hear footsteps approach. Instinctively, I feel my muscles tense.

After everything War said to me, I expect to be carted away to his tent, so I’m not surprised when the flaps to my own tent rustle, and Tamar enters my borrowed residence.

“I’m not going,” I say.

“Going where?” she asks.

I frown. “You’re not taking me to his tent?”

“War’s?” she says, raising her eyebrows. “There are plenty of willing women the horseman can choose from if he wants to enjoy a warm body tonight. He doesn’t need for it to be you.”

Other women? I imagine those heavy, assertive hands settling on other flesh, and I scowl.

“That’s not why I’m here,” Tamar says, changing the subject.

She sits down next to me. “I heard you two talking earlier,” she says, her words hushed. She leans in close. “How do you know the horseman’s language?” she asks, her voice hushed.

I shake my head.

I’m about to deny it when she says, “We all saw you communicate with him,” she insists.

I hadn’t realized anyone was watching the exchange that closely.

I take Tamar in. “I don’t know what I heard,” I admit, “or why he spoke with me at all. I’m sorry, but that’s the best I’ve got. I don’t understand any of this.”

Tamar searches my face. Eventually she nods and reaches out to squeeze my hand. “War goes through women.” She says this like it’s some sort of confession, and I feel a little sick. I really don’t want to know about War’s personal relationships.

“If you want to be over and done