“Now they are,” he responds smoothly.
I trail after him, into his room. I stop just inside the threshold, feeling out of place. Maybe it’s all the carnage we’ve seen, or perhaps it’s just that things between me and the horseman have shifted into uncharted territory, but suddenly I feel pulled taut like a bowstring.
Famine, on the other hand, doesn’t seem to share my mood.
He tosses my new clothes into the top two drawers of a nearby dresser, then shoves them closed. Turning, he faces me once more.
My attention catches on the wound above his eye, the one that was created by that arrow. Now it’s mostly healed, but it still looks a little red and raw. My gaze drops to the arm that had been amputated at the elbow. In the hours between when I found him and now, it’s reformed, but it still looks meaty in a way that’s not at all natural.
“Does it hurt?” I ask, nodding to the arm.
“I’ll be fine,” he says.
I take that for a yes.
He gestures to the bed. “Go ahead.”
My brows draw together. “What are you talking about?”
He gives me a speculative look. “Sleep. I’m sure you need it after the night we’ve had.”
Oh. Of course. I’m seriously questioning the state of my mind that I didn’t understand his meaning. And now that he mentioned sleep, I can feel it tugging at me.
But still I hesitate.
Famine sighs. “What is it?”
“I don’t really want to get in,” I say, indicating to my blood-splattered, dirt-stained body.
He raises an eyebrow. “This place will be left to the vultures in another day or two. No one cares.”
“I don’t want to sleep bathed in your blood.” And the blood of those other guys. The ones I stabbed. I suppress a shudder.
The horseman nods to the bathroom connected to his room. “That’s all yours.”
I hesitate for only a moment. Then I make my way to it. I turn on the faucet, a spark of wonder filling me at the sight of running water.
Stripping off my clothes, I step in as the bath fills, the water cool and refreshing. It doesn’t warm, not even by the time the basin is full. Perhaps that’s why I don’t linger in there for long. Or maybe it’s the fact that I can hear the horseman prowling around his room like a caged creature.
I scrub my skin until it’s raw and wash my hair until I’m sure I’m clean. And then I’m out of the tub, unplugging the drain and wrapping myself up in a towel, my head far clearer than it was when I entered the bathroom.
When I pad into Famine’s room, I find that the horseman has finally managed to settle himself. He sits in a chair next to the bed, staring at his raw hand. He has a sad, troubled look on his face, one that makes my stomach dip.
As though he senses my gaze on him, he looks up, our eyes locking. For a moment, the expression he gives me is naked vulnerability, and again, I physically react at the sight of it.
Crossing the room, I walk up to Famine and silently grab his good hand, giving it a tug.
“What are you doing, Ana?” he asks.
“For starters, I’m trying to get your ass off the chair,” I say, giving his arm another tug. It feels good to curse at him, like I’m re-establishing our previous relationship.
Reluctantly the horseman gets up, though he looks wary of me. I don’t know why; we’ve been through hell and back over the last twelve hours. Threading my fingers through his, I lead him over to the bathroom.
Once we’re inside, I push him towards the porcelain basin.
“Get in,” I say.
Famine stares at the bathtub like he’s never seen anything so distasteful in his life. “I don’t want to bathe.”
“My God. Just get in.”
He gives me a sullen look over his shoulder, but steps in—bloody armor and all.
It’s my turn to give him one a long-suffering sigh. “You need to undress first.”
The Reaper’s eyes flash. “This is ridiculous.” But even as he speaks, he begins to undress.
First he removes his boots; then, piece by piece, he unfastens his armor, his expression saying plainly that he hates all of this. And yet there’s no shyness or embarrassment when it comes to stripping. Not that he has anything to be embarrassed about …
He levels the same displeased look at me even as he pulls off his shirt and then drops his pants and whatever he wears beneath them, tossing the last of his clothes over the side of the tub.
I’m the one who has to school my features to keep my expression disinterested, because Holy Mother of God, even scowling at me, Famine is the most beautiful man I’ve seen in all my life. Every centimeter of him is sculpted muscle, his wide shoulders tapering down to a narrow waist and a cock that is somehow pretty, despite the fact that it is every bit as displeased as the rest of Famine.
My gaze travels back up his body, lingering on his glowing tattoos, which only seem to heighten his appearance.
“Well?” he says. “Are you done staring?”
I have to stifle a smile. Moody Famine is surprisingly fun to be around—at least when there’s no one present for him to kill.
I turn on the faucet and plug the drain, and then I wander out of the bathroom, grabbing a filmy white garment from Famine’s dresser that turns out to be a dress that looks only to be roughly my size.
Pulling it over me, I re-enter the bathroom. The horseman is still naked and still standing; the only difference is that now he’s crossed his arms over his chest.
I nod to the tub. “Sit.”
“I’m the one who gives the orders,” he says.
As if I could ever forget.
Sauntering over to him, I swat his butt. “Sit.”
He flashes me a withering look, and God but I’m used to men actually liking this shit. It’s weird to realize all over again that the horseman isn’t most men.
But … Famine does sit, slowly leaning his back against the tub even as he glares at me. I turn off the water and make my way around the basin.
There’s a bench behind him, presumably where a servant might sit and help the occupant bathe. I grab a washcloth and a bar of soap and seat myself on that bench.
“Am I supposed to be enjoying this?” the Reaper says, grumpy as fuck, his back to me.
Hiking up my filmy dress, I scoot in close behind the horseman, adjusting myself so that my feet are dipped in the tub and Famine’s torso is cradled between my thighs.
At the press of my legs, I feel the horseman tense.
Leaning down, I dip the washcloth into the water. On my way back up, I say softly into his ear. “You might, if you’d actually let yourself.”
And then I drag the cloth down his chest.
He grabs one of my legs, presumably to remove it and the rest of me from his vicinity.
“Believe it or not,” I say conversationally, “I’m not trying to seduce you.”
Not that I would mind …
The thought slips in, unbidden.
“I didn’t think you were,” Famine says. His hand is still on my leg, and he still seems like he’s going to push me away, but he doesn’t do anything for a moment.
I dip the washcloth back in the water, some of my hair brushing against the horseman’s neck and shoulder as I do so.
“Then why won’t you relax?” I say, continuing to run the cloth up and down his chest, trying not to let my mind linger on just how appealing he is.