War (The Four Horsemen #2) - Laura Thalassa Page 0,25

is dead. That’s all that matters. Anything else is just nightmare fodder. About a stone’s throw away rests a pile of discolored bones, the grinning mouth of the skull smeared with blood.

I furrow my brows. This looks less like a mass murder and more like some ritual sacrifice.

“Miriam.”

I turn and face War. He hasn’t dismounted. In his hand he holds Thunder’s reins.

“You killed even all the way out here?” I ask. It seems excessive. We’re in the middle of nowhere. This is no bastion of humankind; there can’t be more than a handful of people who live in this particular patch of hills.

“I kill everyone,” War responds smoothly.

Everyone except for me.

I glance at that body again, the body that was once a person with hopes and dreams and friends and family.

“Remount your steed, Miriam,” War says, completely unfazed by our surroundings. “We have a long way to ride.”

It’s not personal. I can tell it’s not personal. None of the suffering War’s inflicting is personal.

My gaze flicks back to the corpse.

Only it is personal.

I take all of this very, very personally.

I don’t want to get back on that horse, and I don’t want to ride next to the horseman. I don’t want to pass more horse stalls with more fresh corpses.

The horseman narrows his eyes, like he can hear my thoughts.

Be brave, Miriam.

I force myself to take that first step forward. The second one comes easier. I take another step and another and another until I’m taking the reins back from War and staring into his wicked eyes as I pull myself onto my horse.

He doesn’t try to offer an explanation, and I don’t tell him my thoughts. I mount, and we resume. That’s all.

By the time the sun is setting, we’ve passed more dead bodies and circling birds than I care to admit. It’s clear that those raids War went on were more than a little successful.

There’s no one left.

I frown at the thought, the movement pulling at my tight skin. After a day of riding, my face is more than a little sunburnt. I’m beginning to feel feverish, and my exposed skin is painful to the touch. There’s not much I can do about it at the moment. I don’t have a hat or a headscarf to shield my skin with.

The horseman glances at me and frowns. “You do not look well, wife.”

“I don’t feel so good,” I admit.

He curses under his breath. “We’re stopping for the evening.”

I glance behind me at the empty road. “What about the rest of your army?”

“They’ll be fine. We’re not camping with them,” he says.

“We’re … not?” That takes a minute to filter its way in.

My gaze moves back to the setting sun.

Oh dear God.

It’s one thing to ride alone with War, another to spend the night next to him and only him. And now that I’ve been reminded of what he can do, I’m doubly nervous.

About a hundred meters ahead there’s a water pump, a basin, and a pile of hay. We stop long enough for Thunder to drink his fill from the basin and eat a little of the hay before War steers us down one of the sloping hills.

War smoothly dismounts his steed, grabbing the horse’s reins.

Gingerly, I slide off Thunder, wincing as my inner thigh muscles scream in protest. God’s left nutsack, that hurts.

I take a shaky step, then another, cringing at all my aches and pains. It’s not just my legs. My skin feels too hot, my stomach is churning, and I’m a little too lightheaded.

“I don’t feel so good,” I say again. Maybe it was the cured meat someone had packed for me; maybe the water I drank earlier was contaminated.

Or maybe this is heatstroke.

I stumble a little, then sit down hard.

I don’t hear War approach—the fucker is quiet—but he crouches in front of me, his brow pinched just a touch. I think that’s about as much concern as hardened War ever shows. He reaches out.

“You touch me, and I’ll cut you with your own blade,” I say.

War cups my face anyway. He’s such a bastard.

I go for my dagger, but my hand has barely grasped its hilt when the horseman’s free hand closes around mine. He twists the blade out of my grip and tosses it aside.

“Miriam, leave the battle on the battlefield.”

“Oh, that’s rich of you to say.”

His eyes meet mine, and my breath catches. God is he annoyingly attractive. And the longer I stare at him, the more I notice every single inconvenient detail