Pestilence by Laura Thalassa

Chapter 39

Note to self: Pestilence doesn’t do casual sex.

Quick flings clearly aren’t a thing for him. Though, to be fair, sex in any of its forms really isn’t a thing for him. At least not until I fucking corrupted him. I can’t decide if that makes me feel particularly proud of myself, or a bit despicable.

I think, if I’m being truthful, I’m feeling a bit of both.

He’s not going to be chill about it either, I can already tell.

After we finished last night, he took me to bed. I don’t remember much except the warm press of his body behind mine, holding me close. He woke me up twice to his roving lips, and after a bit more exploration, he fit himself inside me and screwed me until I was calling out his name.

That wasn’t what was bad. I have no complaints at all about bumping uglies. It’s everything that’s happened since then.

Like bringing me breakfast in bed—breakfast that he most definitely lifted from someone else’s house because this homeowner didn’t have bacon and eggs. Also, I didn’t know Pestilence could cook.

He could’ve forced someone else to cook this breakfast for you.

I shut that thought down before I can imagine just what sort of scenario could’ve led to that outcome.

He’s also been pulling me aside all morning to steal quick kisses, or confess all those things he’d already admitted to me that night I was “asleep.”

Don’t get me wrong, they’re nice gestures, gestures that make my heart soar and fill my stomach with those idiotic butterflies, but last night was simply a bout of quick and dirty sex and nothing more.

Absolutely nothing more.

Long after we’ve left the bachelor-pad-turned-love-shack behind, after I’ve quoted Pestilence some Poe (Is all that we see or seem, but a dream within a dream?), I think the worst of his adoration has blown over.

Until he leads us to a church.

I stare, uncomprehending, at the building, with its severe spire and the marquee that states, God’s chosen can never truly die.

“What are you doing?” I ask.

“Sara, you gave yourself to me, wholly and completely. I want to show you my commitment.”

I scrunch my features, his meaning not immediately coming to me. It takes several ridiculously long seconds to put it all together. But then—

He wants … he wants … to marry me? After last night?

Shit on a motherfucking stick. I mean, I know I’m a decent lay, but I’m not that good.

I glance over my shoulder at him. “Is this a pity proposal?”

He squints. “I don’t follow.”

I sigh, facing the church once more. It’s seriously doubtful that there even is an ordained minister inside to oversee the ceremony …

Why am I even thinking about this?

“I don’t want to marry you,” I say.

Several silent seconds tick by.

Finally, “Why ever not?” Pestilence sounds offended. “Are you ashamed of me?”

“Huh?” I’m completely confused. I turn back to him. “You know that people don’t just … ” Get married.

Except plenty of people do just get married—people who know each other less well than we do and for reasons that are far less solid than, I fucked you, you’re now mine.

It’s just that I, Sara Burns, need slightly more motivation before I marry a freaking horseman of the apocalypse.

“Why do you want to marry me?” I ask.

This is not a conversation I ever imagined having.

“You gave yourself over to me, as I did you,” Pestilence says. “You are mine, mind, spirit, flesh.”

Ugh. Definitely working with an Old Testament God here. Pestilence probably expects two cows and four goats from my father too.

“So because I’m the first woman who ever spread her legs for you, you want to put a ring on my finger?” I say, just to make sure I’m understanding the situation correctly.

“Don’t talk about it like that.”

“You mean ‘spreading my legs’?” I’m still eyeing the church with no little distaste. “Why not?”

“It’s lewd, and what we did last night was not lewd.”

“The term you’re looking for is making love,” I say.

“Making love,” he echoes, sounding pleased.

“And Pestilence,” I continue, “sorry to burst your bubble, but what we did last night wasn’t lovemaking. That was fucking if I ever felt it.”

Liar, liar, pants on fire. That was about as intimate as I ever get when it comes to sex, but he doesn’t need to know that.

When I look over my shoulder at the horseman, his expression has darkened with discontent.

He tilts his head as a thought comes to him. “Have you done it before?” he asks, scrutinizing me.

“Done what?” I respond, knowing damn well what he’s talking about.

“Lovemaking. Have you ever done it with another?”

“Errr … not lovemaking.” Per say.

“Fucking,” Pestilence amends, curling his lip a little as he says the word. “Have you?”

Why do I feel like I’m playing catch with a live grenade? Oh, I know, because we’re having the Exes Talk hours after I took Pestilence’s virginity.

Fuck my life.

Or not. Fucking is clearly getting me into a lot of trouble.

And I need to stop thinking about that word. Fucking. Gah.

“Yesss …” I say reluctantly.

His dark mood only worsens. “Of course you have. Why I expected any better of you is a testament to my cursed idealism.”

“Keep talking like that, Pestilence, and I will push you off this horse.”

He laughs. “You couldn’t dismount me if you tried, human.”

So we’re back to human.

“You’re being an asshole.”

“Is nothing sacred?” he bellows. “I was inside you. Inside you. I felt you move around me. I gave you my essence. And you’re treating it, all of it, as though we merely danced together.”

This is really not how I imagined this whole conversation playing out. I feel myself flushing.

He clears his throat. “You will not be with another,” he states.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” I all but shout.

Dear God, stop with the word fucking, Sara.

“I will not share you like what we did was meaningless—even if you seem to think so.”

I want to throttle this man. “Who I have sex with is not your decision to make.”

“I will not share you!” he roars. “Even if that means chaining you to me, I will not!”

“And I will not marry your crazy ass!” I shout back at him. “Even if that means being hogtied and dragged behind your stupid horse for the rest of my life!”

His grip tightens. “Don’t tempt me, human.”

“And stop calling me human!” I add, heatedly. “I have a name!”

“One I only like to use when I’m overly-fond of you, which I’m not right now.”

“Big surprise, Captain Obvious. I’m not too fond of you either.”

He seethes behind me.

“Fine,” he says after several seconds. “I will not marry you today. But this discussion isn’t over.”

“The hell it’s not!” I need to hit something.

We ride in silence after that. Thank fuck.

Ugh. Stop with that word.