The horseman curses under his breath. “I almost forgot about that human pox, Heitor.”
At his name, I stiffen.
The action is subtle, but Famine’s gaze immediately shifts from the door to me.
His gaze narrows. “Why is it that every time Heitor is brought up, you get jumpy?”
“I already told you why—because he’s as evil as we humans get.”
The Reaper tilts his head a little, still scrutinizing me. “As I see it, I’m the thing you should be most scared of, not some aging human with an overdeveloped ego and an underdeveloped conscience.”
“You won’t hurt me,” I say. “He will.”
Famine studies me for a moment longer before reaching out, his hand slipping under my shirt. I suck in a breath at the contact. His warm palm runs over my flesh, then settles on the jagged scar left over from where his men stabbed me. Men who are themselves long dead.
“In case you’ve forgotten, I have hurt you,” he says. “And as for Heitor, why would you think he’s going to hurt you?”
“Because that’s what he does,” I say.
If the Reaper needs proof, all he has to do is remember how the cartel boss had Famine’s men killed, dismembered, and hung for display outside his walls. We were Rocha’s enemies before we arrived, and we’re his enemies now. And, when given the chance, men like him eliminate their enemies.
Famine is still watching my expression carefully. “What aren’t you telling me?”
Jesus, this man is relentless.
“You mean besides the fact that we know he’s not afraid to kill?” I say.
Another knock comes from the other side of the door.
“Besides that,” the Reaper says.
I almost don’t mention my little encounter with Rocha. It’s such a small thing, and I pride myself on handling my own business. But the horseman is not letting it go, and I don’t care enough to keep it from him.
“Earlier,” I say, “when Heitor was showing me my room, he grabbed my ass.”
“He did what?” Famine’s inflection doesn’t change, but suddenly he is way more menacing.
“He squeezed my ass.” It was nothing, I almost tack on, but fuck that asshole.
Again the horseman’s eyes rove over my face. Whatever he sees causes a muscle in his jaw to jump.
The knock on the door comes again, and the Reaper drags his attention from mine. The cruel smile I’ve gotten familiar with now blooms across his face.
“It’s long past time I dealt with that nuisance.” He grabs his scythe and strides to the door. To himself I hear him say, “Perhaps I’ll take his hands. Heitor doesn’t need hands to help me. He doesn’t need legs either.”
Holy shit.
Famine grabs the door, then pauses. “I’ll be right back,” he says to me. “Stay in my room as long as you like.”
And then he’s gone.
Chapter 29
I don’t stay in Famine’s room.
There’s nothing inherently wrong with the room, but lingering in there feels too much like waiting, and I don’t really want to feel like I’m waiting on someone else at the moment.
Unfortunately, waiting is exactly what I end up doing in my bed. I’m not sure how long I thought it would take Famine to deal with Heitor, but the minutes tick by, and the hallway outside my room is painfully quiet.
I wait for the sound of footsteps—any footsteps—heading towards this wing of the estate, but none come. I wait so long the tapered candles have dripped down to size, getting wax all over the sconces that hold them.
I wait until my eyelids grow heavy and I drift off …
Click.
My eyes snap open, my heart racing for some odd reason. The room is pitch black, the candles having burned themselves out at some point.
I lay in bed, trying to figure out what woke me. The room is so dark it’s hard to make out anything. I hear another soft noise, and I realize it’s coming from the door. I locked it earlier, but now I swear it sounds like the knob is turning.
A moment later the door does, in fact, open. Low light from the hallway filters in, outlining a male figure. There’s something in the hand at his side.
My muscles tense.
Famine’s the only person I’d actually trust to slip into my room at night, and that’s because he doesn’t hide his own brand of evil like the rest of us. But if the figure were Famine, he’d be bigger, his shoulders wider and his torso more tapered.
He probably also wouldn’t give a fuck about being quiet.
The intruder steps into the room, and a distant light glints off the object in their hand.
A blade.
Jesus.
The intruder doesn’t even hesitate, heading straight for the bed.
Move, Ana!
There’s a brass candelabra on the bedside table next to me. Silently, I reach for it, grabbing the cool metal base. And then I wait, though it just about kills me to do so.
The figure comes so close I see that it’s a man. He doesn’t stop until he’s at the bedside. He leans in, reaching a hand for my throat, his blade coming up as well.
I can see it all play out for a moment—how he’d subdue me first, then move onto the bed. And from there … well, I wish I didn’t know what happened once a wicked man was fully in control of this sort of situation, but prostitution is no fairytale.
I lift the candelabra and swing it as hard as I can at my assailant. I miss his head, instead hitting the man’s knife-wielding hand with a heavy clink. A familiar male voice cries out as his blade is knocked away.
The hairs on the back of my neck rise.
Heitor.
Of course it’s him. He’s the only one brazen enough to do this.
“Bitch,” he curses, lunging for my weapon.
In a panic, I swing the candelabra again. This time it hits his head with a dull thud.
Heitor grunts, toppling onto me, and for one horrifying moment I think that he’s attacking me. I swing again, but this time when the candelabra hits him, all I hear is a soft, guttural sound. The hand at my neck slides away, and the man above me is still.
For several seconds I lay there, breathing heavily as his deadweight crushes me.
Did I … kill him?
I feel shockingly little remorse at the idea.
I’m more worried about the possibility that if he isn’t dead, he’s going to wake up and really want to finish what he started.
My mind is scrambled, my pulse hammering through my veins.
With a great heave, I push Heitor off of me.
He slips off the bed, landing in a heap on the hardwood floor.
Move-move-move.
I head for the door on shaky legs. It’s only once I get to the threshold that I remember the knife.
Fuck.
If Heitor wakes up, I want to be the one with a weapon.
I hold my breath as I hurry back for the knife, keeping my eyes trained on the lump of a man collapsed next to the bed, sure he’s going to pounce on me once I’m within reaching distance. But the body doesn’t move as my gaze scours the bed for the weapon, nor does it move when I catch sight of it in my sheets and grab it by the hilt.
I back up, my eyes trained on the cartel boss, then I turn and bolt for the door. Once I’m in the hallway, I run like my life depends on it, grateful I’m still fully dressed.