Famine by Laura Thalassa

Chapter 11

“Wake up.”

I start at Famine’s voice, my eyes opening.

He’s staring down at me, a scowl on his lips, like he’s angry I’m even here.

I blink blearily, glancing around at my surroundings, before my attention returns to the horseman.

“Have you ever heard of knocking?” I say, stifling a yawn.

“You’re my captive. You don’t get the luxury of a warning.”

“Mmmm …” My eyes drift closed.

“Wake. Up.”

“Unless you plan on cutting away these restraints—no,” I say, not bothering to open my eyes.

Unfortunately, this isn’t the first time I’ve slept with bound hands. However, it’s definitely the shittiest time I’ve had with them. At least in the past I got paid for this sort of thing.

A moment later, Famine rips the covers off the bed. But if he thought to intimidate me, this isn’t the way. I’ve come to expect all sorts of weird shit when it comes to me and beds. What can you do? Hazards of my trade.

I hear the metallic zing of a blade being unsheathed. “You seem to have a shockingly bad sense of self-preservation,” he says.

I force my eyes open again, shaking off the last of my sleep so that I can focus on the dagger he holds. “You’re just mad I’m not more scared.”

The truth is, I decided last night that Famine isn’t going to kill me. I think. At least, not for the time being. That’s definitely emboldened me. The rest of my attitude is simple bravado. Another knack I’ve picked up since I became a lady of ill repute.

Famine grabs my wrists roughly and begins sawing away at the bindings.

I stare at him as he jerks at the rope. Today, he’s wearing his full regalia, his bronze armor polished to a high sheen.

“You smell like pig shit and blood,” he comments.

I raise an eyebrow. “Because I care so much what you think.”

If I’m being perfectly honest, I’m halfway enjoying not having to look and smell like a man’s wet dream. It’s a nice change of pace. Also, super low-maintenance.

“Keep going, little flower, you’re reminding me of all the reasons I despise humans.”

“First off, the name is Ana,” I say, sitting up a little. “Second of all, horseman, let’s not mince our words. You hate humans because long ago we were God-awful to you, not because you have a problem with my mouth.”

In fact, I know I have a nice mouth—or a naughty mouth, depending on who you talk to—but it’s well-liked, all the same.

He glances up at me, and I have to force myself to not be affected by his beauty.

Famine frees my hands then leaves my side. He crosses the room and opens a closet. Several dresses hang inside, the size and style of them making me think a teenager used to live in this room. I don’t let myself think about what must’ve happened to her.

“So,” I say, shaking out my wrists to get the blood flowing through them. “Did you decide whether I get to live or die?” Because I have to ask.

“Do you really think we’d be having a conversation if I wanted you dead?” he says, yanking one of the dresses off its hanger.

I frown at the garment, suspicious that he grabbed it for me.

Famine heads for the door. “Follow me,” he says without glancing back.

I stare after him for several seconds, not sure what to make of my situation. But I really don’t think he intends to kill me, and I need to wake up a bit more before I consider my next move, so reluctantly, I pad along after him.

Famine leads me into another bedroom. Resting on top of the mattress is the horseman’s scythe and what I have now learned are his scales. The rest of the room is full of a stranger’s things.

The Reaper crosses the room, heading to a connected bathroom, and I trail after him. There’s a fancy clawfoot tub and a toilet, both which actually look as though they’re connected to plumbing. The bathtub even has a lever to pump water in. Whoever these rich bitches were, I’m almost envious of them.

They’re surely dead.

Maybe I’m not too envious of them …

In front of the tub is a pitcher of water, which rests on a shallow basin. A washcloth lays on the lip of the bowl. There’s a clawfoot tub, and yet the horseman chose a pitcher and basin to bathe with. You would’ve thought a presumptuous prick like Famine would at least try to fill up a tub.

“Living in the lap of luxury, are we now?” I say.

“That’s for you,” he says.

Ah. Now I understand why he skipped the tub. Heaven forbid he does anything lavish for anyone else.

“Because you stink,” he adds.

“I’m blown away by your hospitality,” I say, padding over to the pitcher.

What I don’t say is that this situation is odd. Really, really odd. Famine still hasn’t killed me, and now he expects me to bathe? In his personal bathroom, no less?

Does he plan on watching?

The horseman tosses the dress he holds onto the nearby counter, leaning against the vanity a moment later. When he doesn’t leave, I realize with a jolt of surprise that yes, he does plan on sticking around.

How scandalous!

Ignoring the pitcher of water, I head over to the tub and try the lever. I give it a test pump. Immediately, water hisses out of the spout.

It works!

Fuck that sponge bath.

Turning my back to the horseman, I begin pumping water into the basin. He doesn’t stop me either, which I half expected him too, given what a little shit he is.

It takes a long time to draw in enough water to bathe in, and the water itself is a little chilly, but eventually it fills up.

When I turn around again, Famine is still there, in the bathroom, and he makes no move to leave.

I don’t know what to think of that.

I take off my shirt, then the thin bra I wear, uncaring that Famine’s getting an eyeful of naked lady chest. This is just an average Tuesday for me.

The horseman’s gaze drops to the wounds that decorate my torso. I actually hear his sharp inhale.

And now I think I understand his reason for lingering—he wanted to see my wounds.

He pushes away from the counter, his gaze locked on my scabbed-over wounds. “They tore you apart.”

I glance down, and the memory hits me again. I can feel those men’s hands on me and I can hear the wet, meaty sound of their knives stabbing me over and over again.

“There are eleven different marks,” I say. I don’t know why I tell him.

“And I imagine you laid for a long time in pain, alone and frightened.”

My steely gaze flicks up to him. “I wasn’t just frightened.” I was angry.

He must see the anger in my eyes when I look at him.

“Yes,” he says, “I know that look well.”

I force my emotions back down.

After a moment, he moves back, towards the bathroom counter, putting distance between us. “Those don’t look like survivable wounds,” he says, his voice light.

I don’t bother agreeing with him. Instead, I step out of my pants, then slide off my panties, kicking them aside.

If I thought nudity would scare off the horseman, I thought wrong.

Huh.

I step into the tub and lower myself, until I’m reclining like a queen, sighing as I lean against the rim.

“How’s your abdominal wound?” I ask, draping my arms over the sides. My tits are wantonly exposed. I’m honestly enjoying the hell out of this; I hope the horseman is rattled.

Famine narrows his gaze on me. “Gone.”

“Too bad.”

“My balls are better too—thanks for asking,” he says.

“I wasn’t worried about your balls. It seems you have no use for them.” My mouth curves into a smirk as I speak. I really am enjoying myself.

The Reaper folds his arms, a wicked gleam in his eyes. “Tell me, Ana,” he says, the sound of my name on his lips making my stomach clench, “what would you do if I let you go free?”

My gaze sharpens on him.

I could lie. But those reptilian eyes, they seem to unmask the truth anyway.

“I don’t know,” I admit. “I’d probably try to find you and hurt you again.”

Because this life has nothing else left for me. I have no home, no job, no friends, no family. Just this vendetta.

The horseman makes a sound low in his chest. “I thought as much.”

I should probably be worried at this point. But to be honest, I think I’m five cities beyond worried. I should’ve turned back from this long ago.

“I’ll still try to hurt you,” I add. “Keeping me close just makes it more convenient for me.

Now the horseman smiles, and dear God, he really does enjoy cruelty.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” he says softly.

He doesn’t say anything else, but then, he doesn’t need to. The threat is implicit: if I try to hurt him, he will make me learn what true pain is.

Pushing away from the bathroom counter, the Reaper moves to the doorway. “Tomorrow we’re heading out. If you try to escape, I won’t feed you.” He looks disturbingly delighted by that possibility.

Fucking Famine.

So the horseman really doesn’t intend to kill me. For whatever reason, he actually wants to keep me around. So much so that he’ll punish escape attempts.

I scrutinize the man. He hates humans but he won’t kill me, and he hates flesh, yet he’s stuck around to watch me bathe. I can’t pin this guy down, and it’s going to eat away at me. So to speak. But on the topic of food—

“Let me get this straight:” I say, “if I stay inside this nice-ass house, you’ll feed me?” Where is the catch?

Again, the horseman’s eyes narrow. “You won’t starve.”

Free room and board? How delightful. My toes practically curl.

“Well then, it’s settled. You have yourself a new and very willing captive.”