I nod.
He moves me a little so that he can peer at the scars. Whatever he sees makes him sit up further.
I begin to move myself, but he holds me in place, inspecting my back.
“There are dozens of welts,” he says, horrified.
I didn’t think he had it in him to be disturbed by something like this. He inflicts worse on people all the time.
“I’m aware.” I remember all too clearly the sharp, lacerating burn as my skin split open, and the stiff, lingering pain that lasted for days and days afterwards as the injuries healed.
“Why would she hit you?” he says. Famine doesn’t usually show his anger, but I hear it in his voice now.
I lift a shoulder. “It varied. Sometimes it was because I’d forget to do my chores. Sometimes it was because I was too slow—or too lazy. Sometimes I’d say something she didn’t like, and sometimes it was just a look I’d give her.”
“A look,” Famine repeats. He’s staring at me like he can’t fathom it. “And you still lived with her?”
“I was a child,” I say a little defensively. “I had nowhere else to go.”
“Anywhere else would’ve been better.”
I give him a disparaging look. “Spoken like a man who has never been powerless.”
“I have been powerless.”
My breath catches. Of course. I don’t know how I forgot.
He traces my scars some more. “And you wonder why I despise your kind.”
My throat works. What he’s saying is terrible, but I don’t feel his hatred; right now I feel his empathy. If there was one person who understood my pain, it would be him.
“I shouldn’t tell you this,” I admit, “but sometimes … sometimes—God this is perversely fucked up—sometimes I’m actually grateful you and the other horsemen are killing us off.”
Famine goes still, those unnerving green eyes tracking me.
Maybe I shouldn’t have said anything. I don’t really want to make him believe that he’s doing some good deed by wiping us all out.
I rub my temples, feeling like I need to explain myself. “When I think of all that’s been done to me and others like me, when I think of every mean act I’ve seen—acts done without remorse or a second’s thought—sometimes it feels like there’s something fundamentally wrong with human nature. I don’t understand why we can be so hateful to one another.”
I feel shame as I speak, but then—in the wake of my words—lightness, like I’ve unburdened myself.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” Famine asks.
“That I sometimes hate people just as much as you do?” I say. “Was I supposed to? Would it have changed anything?”
The look he gives me says plainly that, yes, it would’ve.
There’s a long pause. Finally, the Reaper says, “If you feel this way, then why do you get upset when I kill?”
A hollow laugh slips out. “I don’t always hate humanity. And even people who do bad things aren’t always bad.”
Famine gives me an incredulous look. “Like your aunt and the woman who was going to give you to me.”
“Elvita,” I say.
“Fuck her and her name too,” Famine says. “You can’t give someone away like they’re a sack of flour or a candlestick. You are a person.”
Does the horseman realize he just basically said that humans have some inherent value? That’s new …
“And you can’t routinely beat someone and pretend to still love them,” he continues.
“You don’t know that,” I say, my voice coming out as a whisper because he touched on something real and deep. “It’s not that black and white.”
“Are you serious?” he says, disbelieving. “We’re talking about the people who hurt you, Ana. How can you come to their defense?” Famine looks outraged on my behalf.
“They gave me a home when no one else would,” I argue.
“I would’ve,” he says.
“Am I supposed to regret not heading off into the sunset with the man who murdered my entire town?”
“They were scum who abused a kid—and they abused me.”
The moment the words are out of his mouth, his jaw clenches and unclenches.
I open my mouth to argue with him some more when he stands, scooping me up in the process. “Enough of this,” he says, carrying me towards the wing of the estate where his rooms are. “I want to taste that pussy of yours again, and damn you, but the concessions I would make just to get your cunning mouth back on my dick.”
Concessions? Now that’s piqued my interest. Maybe I’ll still get my moment to save humanity after all.
A blowjob to end all bloodshed. I really do like the ring of that.
Chapter 37
Late the next morning, I wake up in a bed that’s not my own. Which, really, isn’t all that strange, now that I have some time to process where I am.
Famine’s room. Heitor’s house.
I sit up, only to realize that my lips are swollen and my clothes are missing, my hair is a fucking mess, and my head—
Fuck me—I haven’t had a headache this bad in who knows how long.
A moment later, the nausea surfaces.
There’s a fancy toilet in the bathroom, but it might as well be in a different city, it’s too far away. There’s a decorative vase resting near the bed.
That’ll have to do.
I barely have time to scramble over to it, buck naked, before my stomach is purging itself of everything I ate and drank in the last twelve hours.
As I retch, last night comes back to me in all its lurid detail.
And oh, was it lurid.
I clutch the ceramic vase to me and hurl again, though this time I’m not sure whether it’s from the alcohol or the memory of my bad, bad choices.
I can still feel Famine’s touch on my skin, his lips pressed against my pussy.
I let him eat me out. Good God. I let a horseman of the apocalypse eat me out.
At the memory I feel myself blush. Me, the professional prostitute, blushing—over oral, no less.
But Father have mercy, I’d enjoyed it too. And then there was our very painfully real conversation. He saw my scars, he got angry on my behalf.
I let out a shaky breath. Has anyone truly been angry on my behalf? There were my friends at the bordello—Izabel in particular knew about the beatings and she’d cursed my aunt a time or two. But even her indignation never had the same sort of depth and weight that Famine’s did. He looked at me last night like I deserved better—like if he could, he’d go back in time and erase my pain—or punish those who caused it.
And I can’t help but be … moved. So moved.
Which is awfully problematic because everything between me and Famine is supposed to go back to the way it was. That was the agreement.
So I need to stop thinking about him like things between us have changed.
When I trust that I’m not going to get sick again, I pad over to the dresser and pull out a filmy dress from the top drawer, this one the color of rouge.
There’s a half full pitcher of water and some stale bread sitting next to my bed, and my throat tightens at the sight.
Did Famine leave that for me?
Warmth spreads low in my belly.
Stop it, Ana. He’s just a bossy asshole that you’re reluctantly friends with.
… Friends with benefits.
That’s all.
I eat the bread and drink most of the water, and then, stomach sloshing, I crawl back into Famine’s bed.
But when I close my eyes, all I see are the memories of what we did in this bed for the rest of the night. No sex—but everything right up to it.
At least I don’t think there was any sex … things got a bit blurry there towards the end.
It doesn’t help that the memory of Famine’s deft hands and that cruel mouth against my skin is reawakening my lust.
Everything will go back to the way it was tomorrow? I had asked.
Id
iot, idiot, idiot.
My mind is never going to wash away those memories. And until it does, things are not going to be the same between us.
Eventually, Famine comes for me.
I hear his footfalls coming up the hall. With every step he takes, my heart speeds up. The footfalls pause outside his room, and then the door opens.
Even though I’m curled up on myself, my back to the door, I can still sense the horseman’s eyes on me. My skin tingles with awareness.
Then those footfalls again. My pulse is pounding in my ears and I feel sick with anxiety and the worst sort of excitement. Oh, and legitimate nausea. That too.
Getting drunk is definitely overrated.
Famine stops a meter from the bed.
“What’s wrong with you?” His deep voice raises goosebumps along my skin.
God, he’s awful.
He’s also clearly having no problem returning to the way things were.
I bury my face in my pillow.
Does he even know about hangovers? If he doesn’t, I’m not sure I have the energy to explain.
I also hate that his voice is making my cheeks heat and my headache pound against my temple.
“Everything,” I mumble, drawing the blankets closer to me. “I want to forget the last twenty-four hours.”
“That would require more alcohol.”
I groan. “Never again,” I rasp. Just the memory of all those different liquors has me gagging.
Famine continues to stand there. “Are your regrets catching up to you?”
“They caught up a while ago,” I say.
“And?”
And?
I flip over to face the Reaper. “And what?”
Famine is looking at me funny, but I can’t say whether it’s my words or the sight of me so obviously sick. He crouches next to the bed and reaches a hand out, touching my skin. The moment he does so, I have a flashback to last night.
Tangled arms, tangled legs, his kisses down my breasts and between my thighs …
I have to take a steadying breath, just to push those memories away.
“Did we … have sex?”
He frowns. “You don’t remember?”
“I remember most of last night …” Enough to know the two of us let things get out of hand.
He grimaces, but he doesn’t leave. The Reaper’s gaze travels over my face, his entire expression full of yearning. In response, I feel my stomach clench in a very primal way.
He brushes his knuckles against my cheek, the action painfully kind.
“What?” I say eventually.
Famine shakes his head, then strolls over to my empty pitcher of water. “Do you want more? I know humans need absurd amounts of this stuff …”
My stomach flutters.
“What are you doing?” My voice comes out a bit hoarse.
Those green eyes of his move to me. Right now they don’t look nearly as apathetic as they should. “Is this a trick question?”
I don’t want the Reaper doting on me. That does strange things to my mind—and my heart.
“We made an agreement last night—”
Famine sets the pitcher back down. “Fine,” he says, looking unbothered. He turns his head towards the vase I vomited in and wrinkles his nose. “I’ll let you take care of yourself. Grab what you need and meet me in the front of the estate in an hour.”
Famine keeps his distance as I get myself cleaned up, and on the one hand I’m absurdly grateful for it, but on the other … I don’t know. His absence feels like a void has been opened up in me, one I didn’t know existed, and it’s making me feel restless. And that, in turn, makes me angry at myself.
“Stupid girl,” I mutter. Stupid for caring and stupid for pushing him away.
My head still pounds and my stomach is still unsettled. Riding a horse should be fun.
I gather a few items I want to take along with me—among them Rocha’s dagger, because fuck that dude. I shove them into a bag I find resting in the closet.
I leave Famine’s old rooms and cross the courtyard. Lying on the ground are the remnants of last night’s clothing. My gaze slides to it, and I feel heat gathering low in my belly.
Stop—thinking—about—it—Ana.
I enter the main building and nearly back out. The plants inside have run rampant, all but swallowing up the room. I glance back the way I came, and for the first time I register that outside, too, the plants in the courtyard have swelled, seeming to reclaim most of the space.
Facing the room once more, I take a deep breath.
There are no dead people in here. It’s fine.
With that rallying thought, I elbow my way through the vegetation, my hair snagging on a couple outstretched branches.
When I get to the front yard, Famine is waiting for me, his horse saddled and ready. Wordlessly, he takes the bag I’m holding and secures it to his steed.
I follow behind him, taking a deep breath to steady my stomach.
The Reaper turns to me. “Before we go …”
I wait for him to finish his sentence. Instead, he reaches a hand out, angling his palm towards my feet.
My skin tingles, and I can sense Famine’s magic unfolding around us.
“What are you doing?” I ask him.
“Being naughty,” he says.
After seeing what I have of Famine’s normal behavior, I can’t imagine what naughty looks like. What I do know is that I should definitely be afraid.
Only, I’m not. Despite all his brutality, I know this man isn’t going to hurt me. I know it with a certainty I cannot explain.
At my feet, the moist earth shifts. From it rises a small green shoot. I watch, fascinated, as it grows before my eyes, the branches climbing, several of them twisting up my leg. Leaves and thorns sprout from the plant.
“Is this where I finally die?” I say, my voice even.
“Don’t be so dramatic, little flower. I already told you—I don’t intend to kill you.”
Even as the plant grows, not a single thorn pricks me, though it does start to coil itself around my body like a lover.
I watch, transfixed, as in a matter of moments a rosebush comes to life around me. From it sprouts a single bud. I stare at it as the bud grows, then bursts open, revealing the delicate, smoky petals of a lavender rose.
I go numb at the sight of it.
Famine grew the same flower the first time our paths crossed. And now he grew it again.
He plucks the rose from the plant, removing its thorns. He runs a hand over the rose bush. “I know she’s lovely,” he murmurs to the plant, “but you must let her go.”
As though it understands, the rose bush uncoils itself from me.
Just as I’m stepping away from the plant, Famine hands the rose over.
“Why?” I ask, taking it from him. Why did he grow this rose for me after he wiped out my village, and why did he grow it for me again today? It’s been one of those odd, random things that’s picked at me.
“Because around you,” he says, “I feel the oddest urge to use my power to create rather than destroy.”
We don’t return to São Paulo, and for that, I’m absurdly grateful. Even from here I swear I can smell the decay in the air. I can’t imagine what death would look like in a city that large.
Not that we avoid it altogether. Heitor might’ve lived on the outskirts of the city, but the sheer sprawl of São Paulo means that we spend kilometers passing corpses wrapped up in bushes and trees.
“Were they in pain?” I ask.
I expect a cruel response from Famine. Instead he says, “It was quick.”
“Why kill them this way?” I ask. I now know that Famine can make a man wither away just as easily as he can plants.
“Preference, mostly.”
That’s all he says. It’s almost as though, today, he doesn’t savor his deeds like he usually does. I try not to think about that. It’s too easy to feel hopeful, like I have the power to change a bad man one bl
owjob at a time.
Though I will say, my blowjobs are transformative.
For kilometers after we ride out, the land lies in ruins. Dead stalks of corn lean against each other in brown, brittle heaps. Fields of orange trees have all but withered away. Usually, these plants don’t die until we pass them, but today as I stare out at the horizon, I see that the destruction extends as far as I can see.
It doesn’t end with the crops, either. We pass through another city, and there are so many corpses on the road that Famine has to weave his way through them. Next to many of these bodies are trailers full of valuables. I realize belatedly that we’re seeing at least part of the wave of people who fled São Paulo ahead of the horseman.
“When did you do all this?” I ask, covering my nose against the smell.
Not recently, that’s for sure.
He makes a noise in his throat. “After I confronted Heitor, I got a little carried away.”
A little carried away? That’s putting it mildly.
But at the mention of the drug lord, my mind flashes back to that ominous night when Famine and I fought for our lives. I can still see the horseman’s mutilated body even now, and the thought tightens my chest.
That memory, in turn, leads me to another—the sight of Famine fighting for me, defending me.
This is not what I should be thinking about right now. The fact that I am thinking about it right now, amongst so many dead, feels wrong.
This all feels wrong.
It’s felt wrong from the moment I woke up. The lightness in my stomach, the intimacy that I should be regretting but don’t. Or that I’m acutely aware of every part of me pressing against every part of him like I’m some virgin who’s never been touched before. And now this—having soft thoughts towards the Reaper while riding through a graveyard of his own making.
That’s wrong on so many levels.
When these thoughts aren’t spinning through my head, my mind drifts back to last night and the way he looked at me. The way he touched me. The way he tasted me.
At the memory, I feel that same fluttery sensation low in my stomach. It eclipses the last traces of my nausea. For the first time I actually take note of it.
It’s not desire, though that’s there, too.
The last time I felt like this, it had been with Martim, the rancher who had told me he loved me and who I foolishly believed was going to marry me before he broke my heart and married a proper woman.
Famine (The Four Horsemen Book 3) Page 29