Famine by Laura Thalassa

Chapter 40

His lips are hot on mine, and all that fear and shock and pain and adrenaline finally catch up to me. I cling to him, holding on for dear life.

He saved me. I was seconds away from a swift death, and Famine saved me.

What had I told him a while ago?

I helped you once too—even though you wouldn’t have done the same for me.

I was wrong. Famine clearly would do the same for me.

And that realization shatters the rickety walls guarding my feelings.

Screw broken hearts. What good are they if you die and never actually get to experience anything worth experiencing?

I kiss the horseman with all the urgency I’ve held back until now. With all the desire and hope and all the terrible, wonderful emotions that have moved through me in the last day.

God, but this man feels like home, and that’s more than a little wondrous to a woman like me, who’s never really had a home.

Famine is kissing me with a ferocity to match my own, and around us, the rain is coming down in torrents, each drop hitting my skin so hard it stings. It washes away the mud and blood covering me, along with the last of my resistance.

The horseman’s hands slip down my cheeks, and I wince when he brushes my wound.

His lips pause, then he pulls away. “Ana.” The panic is back in his voice. His gaze dips to my neck.

“It’s not bad …” But even as I speak, I feel a little dizzy, a little disoriented.

Famine’s jaw clenches. “You are such a goddamned liar.”

A moment later he scoops me up and carries me inside. He sets me down on the blanket he laid out for me, then quickly removes his bronze armor, the metal clinking as he sets it aside.

He pulls his shirt off, revealing those mesmerizing tattoos that glow green in the darkness.

The Reaper kneels down at my side, pressing the black garment against my wound, staunching the flow of blood.

There’s nowhere to look that isn’t him, and I’m confronted once again by my feelings as I take in his features. The horseman is the most excruciatingly beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. Usually, he looks like some proud, untouchable prince from a bygone era, but right now … he doesn’t look proud and untouchable. If anything, he looks young and uncertain and desperate.

He focuses on my injury, keeping his shirt pressed against my throat. I turn towards him, and the black cloth bushes against my cheek and nose as I do so. Even after a day of traveling, the material smells fresh, clean. If Famine were fully human, the shirt would probably smell like sweat and sour pussy—figuratively speaking, of course; the only pussy Famine’s been near is my own, and I pride myself on—

“Ana.”

“What?” I say, pushing away the thought.

“How bad is it?”

“How bad is what?” My gaze lingers on his lips.

“Your wound,” he says slowly, looking at me like I grew two heads.

“Oh.” I move his shirt away a little so I can probe the edges of the cut. “I don’t know, but I don’t think it’s too bad.” When I see the look in the Reaper’s eyes, I add, “I’m not lying.”

The injury hurts, I can feel the throb of it pounding just beneath my jawline, but I’ve lived through worse—much worse.

I stare at Famine, whose face is lit by the soft glow of his markings. His jaw clenches again, like he might be angry, and right then it really, truly hits me—

“You’re worried about me,” I say.

What a crazy, wondrous thing.

“Of course I am,” he says, his voice so low that I almost miss the words.

I feel warmth spread throughout my body.

This, even more than his compliments, is my undoing.

I reach for him, moving with confidence. My arms wrap around his neck.

He looks at me, shocked. “What are you—?”

Before he can finish his sentence, my lips find his and I kiss him with the same fervency I did outside. For a second or two, he responds … and then his mind catches up to him.

Famine breaks away, looking angry. “Are you just going to ignor—?”

“Yes,” I say, and then my lips are back on his. Yes, I am going to ignore the fact that a man just tried to slit my throat. I fucking survived it, and now I’m floating on this adrenaline high and I need to feel the horseman against me.

At first, Famine doesn’t respond, and I know he’s thinking about the fact that I’m hurt and it’s dark and he can’t see how injured I am—oh, and that I’m a liar from time to time. The thing is, my mouth is a very, very good liar, and right now, it’s doing its best to convince the Reaper that I’m not that hurt.

He must buy it too, because eventually he returns the kiss—and damn does he return it. His arms come around me, and he cradles me like I’m breakable, but he kisses me like he wants to break me wide open and slip inside. His lips are hot on mine.

He leans forward, his chest meeting mine. Heat radiates off of him, and despite his menacing reputation, I’m struck that, to me, everything about him is comforting. His physical warmth, his touch, his desire.

We’re oil and water; we’re not supposed to mix, yet here we are. His hands are wild as they dig through my hair. I can still feel them trembling, even as they hold me in place.

I feel that craze inside him. My heart beats in time with it.

I reach for his pants, tugging at them.

He catches my wrist. “Ana—”

He’s still worried about my wound.

My eyes find his. “It’s just a little cut, Famine. It will be fine,” I whisper. “I want this. If you want it too, then let me unbutton your damn pants. Please.”

He stares down at me, debating, debating …

The horseman releases my wrist. I exhale, my heart beginning to pound.

As I begin undoing the horseman’s trousers, Famine’s hands skim down my body. There’s a gentleness to his touch that wasn’t there before, and I can’t decide whether he’s simply worried about my injury, or if it’s something else. Whatever it is, it causes me to pause. I want to savor this. I’ve so rarely gotten to savor intimacy.

Buttons descend the front of my ruined dress, and one by one the horseman undoes them, slowly peeling the garment away from my body.

As soon as he reveals my stomach, his hands go to my scars. He hesitates, then places soft kisses along them.

The Reaper doesn’t ask for my forgiveness again, but nonetheless I feel his apology in the brush of his lips. I feel something else too—something that seems an awful lot like adoration.

This is new, so new. I feel like so much more than my flesh is being exposed and seen. For all the sex I’ve had, I’m a stranger to this. Feeling valued, adored.

I can feel a thick knot of emotion in my throat, and my eyes begin to sting. I cover my eyes with a hand, but to my horror, it doesn’t stop a tear from slipping out. Another one follows it. Then another and another.

What is wrong with you?

Famine pauses. “Ana?” he asks, and I want to laugh at the uncertainty in his voice.

It takes an embarrassing amount of strength, but I drag my hands away from my eyes. I don’t know if he can see my tears in the darkness, but—

Famine’s brow wrinkles as he takes me in. “Are you crying?” I can tell he doesn’t know what to make of me.

“Yes,” I admit.

Famine frowns. “Do you want me to stop?” he says, clearly not understanding why I’m upset.

“God no.”

He stares at me longer. There’s very little softness to this man, and yet, right now, he’s being excruciatingly compassionate.

“I’m not human,” he says. “I don’t understand what you’re thinking. Explain your mind.”

I blow out a breath. “My clients—they never treated me like this.” Not even Martim.

Sex always felt like an exchange. I was a prostitute. I wasn’t getting paid to be adored. I was getting paid to slack someone’s lust.

Famine’s expression changes, becoming empathetic—so, so empathetic. I think, when it comes to pain and vulnerability, he sees me more clearly than anyone else ever has.

That warm, uncomfortable feeling blooms low in my belly. This time, I don’t fight it.

The horseman brushes back my hair, his eyes moving between mine.

“Tonight,” he says softly, “you’re going to forget all the ways you were mistreated. I’m going to make sure of it.”