“Oh, and as for the rest of you,” Famine adds, his gaze sweeping over the group of them, “don’t even think about touching this woman.”
Now that he’s very literally put the fear of God in these men, Famine resettles himself in his seat, grabbing an empty plate from the spot next to him and placing it in front of himself.
“Ana,” he says as his men drag Ricardo out of the house. “Sit.”
Like a good little captive, I do as I’m told, pulling out a chair next to the Reaper and sitting down in it.
I stare passively at my place settings.
“Well?” he finally says, turning to me.
I meet his gaze, and his eyes move to my still-throbbing cheek. He frowns ever so slightly.
“Entertain me—or can you do nothing useful?” he asks.
“Oh, I can be useful,” I say, “but you’re not too interested in getting fucked.”
The horseman cracks a smile, and the hairs on the back of my neck rise at the sight of it.
“You haven’t reached for the food yet.”
Unwillingly, my attention moves to the dishes in front of me. My stomach cramps at the sight of it all.
“The last person who did that got stabbed,” I say. “I think I’ll go hungry.” Especially considering I pissed the horseman off only minutes ago.
Another sly smile slips across Famine’s face, and it’s like I’m finally playing the game he can’t get anyone else to play.
“I’m no longer so thirsty for blood,” the horseman says. He gestures to the food. “Have your fill, and I promise not to stab you.”
I can feel the room’s eyes on me, and I hesitate just as Ricardo did.
This feels an awful lot like a trap. Regardless, I’m too hungry to turn the opportunity down.
I go for the water first. Grabbing the pitcher in front of me, I clumsily pour myself a glass and bring it to my lips. It’s crisp and cool and I can’t seem to drink enough of it. Only once I’m satiated do I move on to the food, grabbing a little of everything.
Famine watches me, his green eyes glinting in the candlelight. I half expect him to lunge for me—or at the very least to upend my plate as I did his. Maybe that’s why he doesn’t do either. The horseman loves himself some tension.
My fork is halfway to my mouth when the Reaper says, “Tell me about yourself.”
I pause, giving him a skeptical look. “Now I know this is a trap.”
“Why would you think that?” As he speaks, he runs his thumb across his lower lip, and it’s upsettingly sexy.
I raise my eyebrows, my expression blatantly saying, prove me wrong.
After a moment, the horseman flashes me a wicked smile. In the short time I’ve spent with him, I’ve learned he grins when he’s particularly dangerous to be around.
Famine grabs his glass of wine and props his ankles on the table. “Let me start again: what makes a young girl choose to save a horseman of the apocalypse?”
“You want to have that conversation now?” I ask, my gaze darting back at the men standing in the living room.
Famine just continues to stare at me, and I realize this simple question has been burning him up—maybe for years.
Has he really experienced so little humanity that he can’t understand what I did?
I take a few bites of my food before answering.
“At the time, I thought what they did to you was wrong,” I say, not meeting his eyes.
“You don’t think so anymore?” he asks.
Another loaded question.
Now I meet his gaze. “I can’t believe you have the audacity to ask that when I can still hear your victims’ moans.”
The horseman makes a cavalier sound in the back of his throat. “And yet you still don’t hate me enough to kill me,” he reminds me.
I think of the blade I pressed against his skin. How badly I wanted to hurt him—and how in the end I didn’t.
“Give me a knife and we can test that theory,” I say.
The horseman nods to my utensils. “Go ahead,” he says.
I follow his gaze to the steak knife resting next to my plate, identical to the one he stabbed Ricardo with. I make no move to grab it.
“What would be the use?” I say. “I’ve seen you heal from death before.”
Famine doesn’t call out the fact that if I really felt this way, I would’ve never threatened him in the first place.
Instead, he grabs his wine and swishes it around in his cup. “So, you regretfully saved me, I destroyed some things you cared about,”—he destroyed everything I cared about—“and we parted ways. How’ve you spent the rest of our time apart?” he asks.
“Mainly with my mouth open and my legs spread,” I say.
Usually, this sort of language is shocking, and I enjoy scandalizing my audience. But Famine doesn’t so much as lift an eyebrow.
I will figure out how to push his buttons, damnit.
“That seems uncomfortable,” he says smoothly.
“No more so than having to wear manacles.” I raise my hands and jingle my chains just to emphasize my point.
“So, you joined a whorehouse and made a living out of getting used?” he asks, his razor-sharp attention focused on me. Between his blinding good looks and his God-awful personality, that attention is particularly off-putting.
“You disapprove,” I say.
He lifts a shoulder. “I disapprove of everything you humans do. Don’t take it personally.”
I don’t.
Instead, I settle into my own seat. “Don’t tell me you’ve never wanted to dip your wick?”
When nothing registers on his face, I elaborate. “You know, polish the brass?”
No reaction.
“Hide the salami?”
Nothing.
“Do the devil’s dance?”
Famine brings his glass to his lips. “Whatever you’re talking about, it all sounds highly insane,” he responds, “but given the idiotic pastimes you mortals are fond of, I’m not altogether surprised.” He drinks deeply from his wine.
“Sex,” I finally say. “I’m talking about sex.”
He grimaces.
“Oh, don’t act like you’re somehow above the act,” I say. “You seem to enjoy the rest of our things well enough.” I look pointedly at his glass of wine. He’s been drinking all day; clearly he approves of some human things.
Famine’s mouth twists into a wry grin. “Just because you like honey doesn’t mean you must also like the bee.”
I frown at him, annoyed that he’s making any amount of sense.
“The truth is,” Famine says, eyeing his drink speculatively, “a little alcohol washes away the memory of all sorts of sins.”
I study him. “You’re trying to forget everything you’ve done?”
I don’t want to linger on that thought. I can too easily empathize with it, and I don’t want to empathize with any part of this horseman.
“It makes no difference what I’m trying to forget,” he says, setting his drink down.
The Reaper’s gaze lifts to mine, and for an instant, I see a spark of pain, and I remember all over again how I found him mutilated and discarded off to the side of the road.