War (The Four Horsemen #2) - Laura Thalassa Page 0,48
hands clasp the weapon. Right now I’m not feeling too pious myself.
“Ten minutes,” he vows rising to his feet.
He heads to the tent flaps. He’s nearly left when he pauses, glancing over his shoulder at me.
“There’s food on the table.” Giving me a heavy look, he repeats, “ten minutes.”
With that, the horseman leaves, and for the first time since last night, I’m alone again.
I was nearly raped and beaten to death.
Now that War’s gone, I’m sort of just coming to terms with that.
It probably doesn’t help that I’m in a tent again, and everything hurts, and I’m alone, and I don’t know how well I’d truly be able to defend myself if someone comes at me again.
Not that I was about to tell the horseman that when he was considering staying. It’s one thing to feel vulnerable, another thing to showcase it to the world.
I probe my face a little, trying to figure out by the feel of it just how bad off I am. Along with a split lip, my nose is tender and the skin around my eyes is swollen. Never have I been more thankful that there’s no mirror in sight. I don’t really want to see the pulpy remains of my face.
I sit there for several minutes, bored and restless all at once. My skin throbs like it has a pulse, and you’d think that the pain would push out every other human urge, but it doesn’t.
My stomach knots. God, am I hungry.
I look forlornly towards the food War had mentioned. The table might as well be a million kilometers away in the state I’m in.
I grab the dagger War gave me and I force myself to stand anyway—
Holy balls, I’m going to barf. I’m going to barf all over War’s bed right now, and that holds none of the appeal it would’ve a day ago.
I force my sickness back down and stagger over to the table, pushing my dark brown hair out of my eyes. With a heave, I plop down in a chair, setting my weapon on the table.
I don’t think I should’ve gotten up. Things feel … broken. Or rather, freshly mended, like my bones are brittle twigs set to snap in the wind.
Spread out before me is a platter full of dried Turkish apricots and figs and dates, olives, cured meat—probably goat or sheep because everything these days is goat or sheep, cheese cut and arranged, and several loaves of pita bread. Next to it all is a coffee pot and a gawa cup filled with thick Turkish coffee.
The coffee has long since gone cold, the pita is a little hard, and the cheese has dried out some, but it all tastes like motherfucking heaven. Not even bruises and a split lip can stop that.
As I eat, I look around me again. It’s weird to be in here, in War’s tent, not just as some sort of visitor but as a guest—and an injured one at that.
You are not a guest, you are my wife. I can practically hear War’s response even now.
I finish shoveling food into my face, and once I’m done, I sit there, putting off the walk back to the bed.
Time to inspect the rest of my injuries.
I glance down at myself. My ripped shirt reveals mottled, discolored skin. I gingerly move the ripped fabric out of the way to get a better look. Ugh. Right now, my flesh looks more akin to that of the zombies I fought yesterday than it does healthy human skin. Everything is swollen and discolored.
I’m about to turn my attention to the lower half of my body when I hear the sound of footfalls heading my way. I pull my shirt together as best I can.
The tent flaps are thrown open, and War strides in, his expression stormy. When he sees me at the table, his step falters, his face turning fierce in a whole different manner.
“Miriam.” His voice is raw and gravely.
I find I like the sound of my name on his lips. He makes me sound … formidable. I could use a good helping of formidable today.
War walks over to the table and pulls out a chair. He sits down next to me, surveying the food then my face. Right now the horseman is all purpose and commanding energy, and I feel like squashed fruit.
War reaches for his upper arm, his wavy hair shifting with the action.
I tense when I see him grab the dagger sheathed there.