Famine by Laura Thalassa

Chapter 32

I have to force myself to breathe as Famine straightens.

He defended me. I mean, he tortured a man—and killed several others—so I should probably focus on how bad that is.

But I’ve long ago accepted that I’m no saint.

So I’m focusing on the fact that in the last couple hours, Famine has made it very clear that he feels something for me. Something deeper than loyalty. My skin tingles, my entire body electrified by the strange emotions I’m feeling.

Famine rises, walking back towards the cart. His eyes are bright with all sorts of emotions, the most prominent of them menace. But when they lock with mine, they soften, and for a moment I swear I see something both hopeful and vulnerable within them. As quickly as the expression comes, it goes again.

The Reaper moves to the side of the cart and reaches out his good hand to me. Blood is splattered across his armor, and the sight of his bloody attire is so at odds with his current chivalry.

I take his hand and let him help me off the cart. Once I’m down, he releases my hand.

“I have one last thing I need to attend to,” he says softly.

I part my lips to respond, but the horseman is already turning around and stalking back towards the estate, noticing Heitor long enough for the plant that holds the broken man to slide out of the horseman’s way. At the movement, Heitor cries out, the sound dying away to a whimper.

When Famine gets to the front door, the plant blocking the entrance now curls in on itself, withering away so that the horseman can get through. Famine lifts a booted foot and gives the door a solid kick. Wood splinters and the door crashes open, banging against the inside wall.

Distantly, I can hear several frightened shouts coming from the house. Famine pauses at the threshold, taking in whatever sight is waiting for him.

I start moving again, heading for the mansion just as the horseman steps inside. I pass Heitor, my eyes meeting his for a moment.

The once proud drug lord is nothing more than a broken man, his skin grey and withered, his face wan, and his limbs contorted in unnatural angles.

“Please …” he whispers.

This is where I should feel pity. Too bad I’ve used it all up on the people actually deserving of it.

My gaze slides away and I walk past him, stepping inside the mansion.

Ahead of me, Heitor’s remaining men are huddled in the living room, their weapons on the ground. They kneel before the Reaper, their heads bowed, like they intend to serve him faithfully.

As though last night didn’t prove with painful clarity just how much loyalty they’re truly capable of.

These last few men must’ve realized they bet on the losing horse.

“Oh, this is precious,” Famine says ahead of me. “I guess shooting me was just an accident?” He’s clearly remembering the same thing I am.

One of the men looks up, and my eyes widen when I notice just how sickly he looks. As though his very life were withering away before my eyes …

This must be that same, awful talent Famine demonstrated on Heitor.

“We didn’t want to hurt you,” the guard rasps out, staring at Famine. “Heitor made us.”

“Do you think I actually give a fuck about your reasons?” Famine asks. The ground beneath us trembles, then begins to lift, the marble floor cracking as the tiles are displaced. I stagger, bracing myself against a nearby wall as a forest of plants rise up from the ground, wrapping themselves around the men.

Even in their weakened states, a few try to run. It’s useless—it’s always useless. The branches and vines snap out like snakes striking, wrapping themselves around them.

My stomach still quakes at the crunch of bones breaking and the men’s agonized shouts.

The Reaper turns from the room of guards and comes over to me. He closes his eyes, breathing in and out.

When he opens them again, he says, “It is done.”

“What’s done?”

The horseman gives me a meaningful look.

I don’t know if I sense it, or if I just put the pieces together, but eventually I realize Famine means the people here. The people of São Paulo.

This is another thing I’ll never get used to—that the horseman can mercilessly kill entire towns in a matter of moments.

There must be something in my expression because Famine frowns at me. “Come now,” he says. “You mean to tell me you’re actually upset about this?”

Yes. Of course I’m upset over absolutely everything except for maybe the last dozen deaths I witnessed.

Gentler than his mood seems to indicate, Famine takes my arm and leads me forward through the jungle of tangled vines and human limbs. We cross the room, then head out to the courtyard.

“Where are we going?” I say, feeling like I’m walking in a daze.

“Your room,” the horseman says, and there’s a note to his voice …

I glance at him, but his face tells me nothing about his mood.

We wind our way through the courtyard and enter the wing of the estate that houses his room and mine. I stiffen a little when I see the door to my room open.

Famine releases my arm and saunters ahead of me, heading down the hall before slipping into my room. I’m slower to approach, my heart beginning to pick up speed the closer I get. It’s a ridiculous reaction; I know that Heitor is imprisoned in one of the Reaper’s horrific plants, but I still have to take several steadying breaths and force my legs to move towards that room.

Inside, the horseman’s gaze scans the surroundings, taking in the rumpled bed, the candelabra, and the few droplets of blood on the ground. After a moment, he moves to a nearby closet and opens the door. I can see feminine garments hanging inside. Apparently Heitor kept this room stocked for whatever poor soul stayed here before me.

Famine begins yanking them off, one by one, letting them fall to the ground.

“What are you doing?” I ask Famine.

“You’re staying in my room,” he says, not looking back at me.

“Why?” I ask, curious. I mean, I’m not against this arrangement, just piqued that Famine’s all for it.

He scoops the pile of garments up. “I would think the answer is self-explanatory,” he says. “You were ambushed when you were alone. I don’t want that happening again.”

There’s a tightness in my chest, one I’m trying to ignore.

The horseman strides past me, the light, lacy garments fluttering under his arm.

“Those aren’t even mine,” I say, watching him leave the room.

“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.

“I don’t like—” He seems to stop himself, then exhales. “I don’t want you to take care of me.”

I move to his arms, cleaning the good one, my eyes catching on the green glyphs that wrap around his wrists like shackles.

“Has anyone ever taken care of you?” I ask, my tone light.

“I don’t need anyone to,” he says, and I can hear the frown in his voice.

I don’t say anything right way, instead picking up his injured arm and gently running the washcloth over the fully healed area.

“Everyone needs to be taken care of,” I finally say, dipping the cloth into the water.

“Not my kind.”

“Especially your kind.”

Famine turns to look at me, the injury above his eye still red, and I use the movement to catch his jaw. I let him study my features as I bring the cloth to his face. This close to him, I appreciate just how savagely pretty he is. Pretty and feral.

Using great care, I wipe around the edges of the wound. As I do so, I feel Famine’s hand slide up my leg, then down it, the action drawing out goosebumps.

That all ends the moment my washcloth touches his open wound.

He hisses at the touch, trying to jerk his head away. But between my hold on his jaw and my legs pinning him in place, there’s nowhere for him to go.

Apparently, this injury isn’t as healed as I assumed it was.

“Stop it,” he grates out, his fingers squeezing my leg.

“Just—hold still,” I say, my attention on the wound.

He doesn’t, instead trying to shake off my hold like a wild cat.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake, stop it,” I say, gripping his jaw tighter. It’s not like Famine can’t handle the pain. That’s exactly what he’s been doing for the last twelve hours. And this is nothing compared to what he endured.

The horseman’s eyes flash and his gaze thins, but he listens to me.

Methodically, I finish cleaning his wound, then the rest of his face.

He watches me as I work, frowning deeply. But after a minute or so, he resettles.

I move from his face to his hair, setting the cloth aside to run my fingers through his caramel locks. At my touch he closes his eyes, and I feel a spark of satisfaction that even horsemen enjoy a good head rub.

“You haven’t reacted to my nudity,” he says, out of nowhere.

Oh, I’ve reacted. I’d have to be dead not to.

But I keep that to myself.

“Am I supposed to?” I say instead.

He opens his eyes. “In the past, people have.”

That makes me pause, and I wonder again what sort of man Famine was before he was caught and tortured.

“I’m used to seeing naked men,” I answer smoothly.

Though I’m not used to seeing men like Famine. He stands apart in that regard.

“Hmm …” he muses. His hand begins to move up and down my leg again, and his touch is making me oddly breathless.

How long has it been since I’ve ached for someone?

I can’t honestly remember. True lust is a rare thing when you’ve oversaturated yourself with sex. The whole process turns a bit mechanical, unfortunately.

“Would you like me to wash … the rest of you?” My voice doesn’t sound like my own. It’s too low.

Famine hesitates. Then—

“No. I’ve been done with this damnable bath since before I got in.” But just like me, his voice doesn’t sound as it should; it’s hoarser than usual. And then, of course, there was his hesitation, as though he toyed with the idea of me touching him lower.

Famine stands, exiting the basin to grab a towel, and I have to force myself not to stare at his backside.

Lord help me, but you could bounce a coin off that ass and I shouldn’t be thinking thoughts like this about the horseman. Especially after I made that grand statement about being unmoved by his nudity.

Because my pussy? Oh, she’s moved.

I leave the bathroom while Famine changes, trying to be a halfway decent person.

As soon as I re-enter the bedroom, the horseman’s bed beckons to me. Now that the danger has passed and my adrenaline has all been used up, I can feel my own exhaustion settling into my bones.

“Get some sleep,” Famine says from behind me, toweling off his hair. “No one will disturb you.”

There is no one left to disturb me—no one except for the horseman himself.

“What will you do?” I ask over my shoulder, even as I move over to the bed, slipping into the soft sheets.

“What I do best.”

My eyes meet his.

“I’ll make all those men suffer.”