Pestilence by Laura Thalassa
Chapter 22
I swallow, feeling that unnerving lightness in my belly. This close, Pestilence takes up my entire vision. I can see the remains of the bullet wound just above his collarbone, and his thick golden hair, which is still matted with blood and sea spray. It doesn’t at all take away from the glory of him. I can see the ocean in his eyes, his blue, blue eyes, and the thick lashes that surround them.
And now I’m staring at his mouth and that full upper lip that gives him a perpetually pouty look.
He has no idea how good looking he is. Scratch that—good looking is a term reserved for humans who are attractive, imperfections and all. This inhuman thing, with his angelic features, isn’t good looking, he’s blinding, breathtaking. He’s perfection incarnate. And isn’t that just cosmically unfair? He’s a harbinger of the apocalypse. He doesn’t need to be attractive, but he is.
His eyes continue to take in my lips. There’s something raw and powerful in his expression, like liquor has made him hunger for other forbidden things. Human things.
He moves his thumb over my lower lip again, and I feel that simple touch everywhere.
Lowering his hand, he leans in. I’m not sure he’s even aware that he’s doing it—moving towards the mouth he’s fixated on.
Over the course of our association, I’ve been close to Pestilence, but not like this.
Not like this.
He’s so close our breath is mingling.
My pulse hammers away at me until it’s all I can hear.
Tha-thump, tha-thump, tha-thump.
He’s going to kiss me.
That warm flush spreads out from my stomach.
Shouldn’t do this.
Can’t do it.
Won’t.
His hand slides to my neck, tilting my jaw up, his gaze still pinned to my lips.
Our mouths are so very close.
Just one taste, I reason. That’s not so bad, right? Just one taste. No one could blame me for being curious. This horseman is supposedly God’s justice and vengeance. How can I be doing anything wrong if I let His horseman touch me?
I half believe my insane musings. Right now, with the bourbon warming my insides and softening my resolve, I’ll bend just about any logic to let this happen.
Pestilence hesitates. Unlike me, I imagine he might be having one final moment to talk himself out of—rather than into—this.
In that one moment, I come to my senses.
My eyelids lower, and I stare at his lips.
“Please,” I whisper.
The hand on my neck presses into my skin, and then at once, it’s gone.
Spell’s broken.
“Please?” Pestilence pulls away to give me a look of disgust. “You say this to me now?” He runs a hand over his mouth and jaw, then looks around, like he’s waking from a dream.
He stands, and I can only stare up at him. I have nothing to say. No words to ameliorate the situation because I knowingly drove it here.
I begin to stand as well, but Pestilence places a hand on my shoulder to keep me in my seat, almost as though I were now the one pursuing him.
He sighs, suddenly looking every inch as exhausted as he should be, considering the day he had.
“It’s late, Sara,” he says. “You best get some sleep, we ride early tomorrow.”
With that he leaves me and the bourbon and this troubling emotion that I’m pretty sure is regret.
I know I should feel relieved—triumphant even. But, like the Good Book says, though the spirit may be willing, the flesh is, indeed, weak.
