War (The Four Horsemen, #2)

by Laura Thalassa

Miriam Elmahdy’s Guide to Staying the Fuck Alive: (1) Bend the rules—but don’t break them. (2) Stick to the truth. (3) Avoid notice. (4) Listen to your instincts. (5) Be brave.

A monster of a man sits on his blood-red steed, a massive sword strapped to his back. There are gold rings in his dark hair and kohl thickly lines his eyes. His cheekbones are high and the scowl he wears makes him look absolutely petrifying.

“Netet wā neterwej.” You are the one He sent me. I start at his voice. His words aren’t Hebrew or Arabic or Yiddish or English. He doesn’t speak any language I recognize … and yet I understand him as though he does. “Netet tayj ḥemet.” You are my wife.

“I am yours and you are mine, Miriam—” I quake at those words. “—but I am not like you, and you should never forget that.”

“I feel you slipping through my fingers like grains of sand, Miriam,” War says into my ear. “Tell me what I’ve done wrong.” “Everything,” I say wearily. He forces me to look at him. “Human hearts can be fixed,” he says, like I’m the one whose perspective needs altering. “Can yours?” I ask. He searches my face. “Will that make you hate me less?” I don’t know. “I won’t lose you,” War says, a promise in his voice. “I spared you that day in Jerusalem because you were mine. And I intend to keep it that way, no matter the cost.”

“Does that feel good?” War asks, again making himself understood. He looms over the man, the blade still sticking out of his victim. “I hope it does. I bet you wanted my sword shoved inside you just as much as Miriam wanted yours shoved in her.”

Whatever the reason, now I can’t help but notice the sharp cut of his jaw; his dark, almost black hair; and those curving lips. I take in his red leather armor and his powerful thighs. I’m having thigh fantasies. About my enemy. I’m a fucking moron.

Loss is a wound that never heals. Never never never. It scabs over, and for a time you can almost forget it’s there, but then something—a smell, a sound, a memory—will split that wound right open, and you’ll be reminded again that you’re not whole. That you’ll never fully be whole again.

So I back off, despite my raging hormones. (I mean, hey, I almost died. I think my survival should be rewarded with an orgasm or three, but that’s just my opinion.)