“I’m sorry,” I say, “that they did that to you.”
Again his grip on me tightens, but he doesn’t respond.
We’re both quiet for some time, his words lingering in the air between us.
“So,” I eventually say, deciding to lighten the conversation. “Where have you been for the last five years?”
“You mean since we first parted ways?”
I make an affirmative noise.
Famine leans back in the saddle, exhaling. “A better question is where haven’t I been.”
That has my breath catching.
Five years ago Famine left a trail of dead from Montevideo to Santiago before disappearing from South America altogether. Foolishly I had assumed … I don’t know what I had assumed. Clearly something far too optimistic.
“Just how much of the world is gone?” I’m almost afraid to ask.
“Much of Europe and Asia is gone, as well as some of Africa, Australia, and the Americas.”
For a moment, I can’t breathe. While I went about living my life, whole continents were getting decimated. I don’t know how to put in words the thought of so much of the world just … gone. So I don’t.
We go over an hour in silence, and during that time I make peace with this frightening reality of mine. We’re really all going to the grave. It makes my earlier attempt to run from the Reaper all the more ridiculous. The man was right, where would I even go? Eventually he’ll kill us all.
But if that’s true, what happened to his brothers? I know at least one of them had ridden the earth before Famine—perhaps two, though the reports were a bit unclear on this second one. If they were successful, why did they disappear—or did they not? And why did they leave so many humans alive?
“How is it?” Famine asks, interrupting my thoughts.
“What?” I have zero idea what the horseman is talking about.
He touches my upper arm, near my injury. I glance at it, only to realize I’ve been cradling the arm. At some point, the constant movement in the saddle started to make the cut throb in a funny, tearing way.
And he noticed.
I frown. “It hurts, but I’ll be fine.”
The Reaper says nothing, and we continue on for another minute. But then I hear Famine mutter something under his breath. Abruptly, he stops his horse.
“Has my oh-so-benevolent captor decided to give me a bonus pee break?” I say as he swings himself off his steed.
The Reaper ignores me, striding away. Without meaning to, my eyes drink in his wide shoulders and tapered waist. His bronze armor gleams under the sun.
He glances over his shoulder at me, that caramel colored hair blowing about his face, and my breath catches. He looks like a hero from some bygone age, his features painfully perfect.
Those shocking green eyes glint like jewels as they take me in. “Are you coming?”
I hesitate, not just because his beauty caught me off guard.
“My arm …” The truth is, it hurts more than I’m willing to admit.
His expression changes subtly.
Famine comes back over to his horse. Silently, he grabs me and pulls me off his horse. I hiss out a breath as my injury is jostled.
At the sound, the Reaper’s lips press together in a displeased line. He sets me down on the ground.
I begin to walk off to do my business.
“Wait,” Famine says.
I turn back to him. “Don’t tell me you want to watch. I didn’t peg you for having that sort of fetish.”
He gives me a hard look, like he really doesn’t want to deal with my shit.
“I’m kidding,” I say. “You’re just too much fun to tease.”
“Come here,” he says.
I return to him, unsure what this whole stop’s actually about.
He steps in close, then reaches for my shift, tugging the loose collar carefully down my shoulder.
I stand impossibly still, my heart beginning to pick up speed.
“I need you to free this arm.”
“I’m going to have to take the dress off,” I say.
In response, he steps back, presumably to give me room to disrobe. When, however, I begin to struggle at removing my belt, Famine steps forward again, helping me first pull it off, and then the nightgown.
I stand there, off to the side of the road, my tits out, wearing nothing but the grannie panties I also happened to lift from the house this morning.
Famine doesn’t so much as blink when he sees my breasts. Instead, his focus is on my shoulder. Carefully, he unwinds my bandages. Whatever he sees makes him frown.
For my part, I refuse to look at the wound. It’s one thing to feel the pain, another to see the grotesque proof of it.
The horseman reaches towards the injury, then hesitates.
“What are you doing?” I say.
He drops his hand, his cold gaze flicking to mine. “Repaying an old debt,” he says.
“So you’re attempting to kill me?” I ask half-jokingly.
The barest hints of a smile tug at the corner of his mouth. “I believe I already tried that once.” His eyes dip meaningfully to my stomach before returning to my shoulder.
After a moment, he backs away from me, heading to his horse. He rifles through one of the saddle bags, eventually pulling out a glass of some clear alcohol.
“You’ve been holding out on me,” I say. I am all for day-drinking. Especially while injured … and in the horseman’s company.
He comes back over and uncorks the liquor. Lifting the bottle up, he tips the liquid onto the wound.
I hiss through my teeth. Shit, but that hurts.
“You don’t need to do that,” I rasp out.
In front of me, the Reaper stiffens, his shoulders tensing, and he doesn’t look at all thrilled that I’m in agony at the moment.
“I’m repaying a debt,” he repeats.
Semantics. He’s trying to help, which is completely mind-blowing, considering the hate this man harbors for all human life.
Famine sets the alcohol down, then unfastens his breastplate, shrugging it off before setting it on the ground. His fingers go to the hem of his black shirt, and I have only a moment to wonder what he’s doing before—
Riiiiip.
He removes a strip of material from the bottom of his shirt, bringing it up to my shoulder.
Famine’s eyes settle on mine for a moment. “Do not read into this.”
Oh, I’m planning on reading the entire fucking series of Famine Acting Abnormally Kind and What it Means.
His fingers fumble and his expression is increasingly tumultuous as he wraps the cloth around my wound. By the time he knots off the bandage, he seems openly angry.
He picks his breastplate up and slips it back on. “Let’s go.”
The Reaper stalks towards his horse, not waiting for me to follow.
I stare after him for a moment, before I pick up my discarded dress and clumsily pull it back on, gritting my teeth when I have to move my injured shoulder. My belt is equally difficult to secure, but this time the horseman doesn’t try to help.
“Ana,” he calls out again, clearly irritated that it’s taking so damn long for the injured woman to dress herself.
Famine may have his moments of kindness, but he is still such an ass.
My gaze drops to the bottle of spirits lying on the ground. Over the last five years, I’ve drank precious little liquor, and what little I did drink was done far, far away from The Painted Angel. Elvita had a strict rule against drugs and alcohol, one she forced all her girls to comply with.