Famine (The Four Horsemen, #3)

by Laura Thalassa

This, however, is one of the few times I’ve showed my skin for something other than money or pleasure.

The third horseman of the apocalypse is having a mental breakdown right next to me.

Of course nothing is okay and it won’t be okay, and I should not be making Famine (holy shit!) feel better.

“You really should’ve stayed away. You may still be that same little flower who saved me, but then, I’m not known for letting flowers grow …”

The rest of my attitude is simple bravado. Another knack I’ve picked up since I became a lady of ill repute.

“Because you stink,” he adds. “I’m blown away by your hospitality,”

Despite my words, I do try to escape. Several times, in fact. Mostly because I’m fatalistically curious. I’m also bored. There’s only so much to do in a stranger’s room. Oh, and then there’s the fact that going hungry doesn’t scare me all that much.

“You foolish little flower, don’t you know?” he scolds me. “I kill everything. If you leave my side, you will die.” I push uselessly at his shoulders. “Then let me die, damn you!” “No.”

Famine’s eyes settle on mine for a moment. “Do not read into this.” Oh, I’m planning on reading the entire fucking series of Famine Acting Abnormally Kind and What it Means.

“So don’t act like you invented pain. It’s an insult to the rest of us.”

“You mentioned how you were worse than Pestilence and War,” I say, “but what about Death?” Famine holds my gaze for a long minute, then gives me a slight nod, like he’s conceding a point to me. “Nothing is worse than him.”

Imagine that—Famine not having an appetite.

Only once it’s all over do I face the horseman again, my breathing a little heavy. “Finally,” Famine says, a smile curving the corners of his lips, “a hint of your fire.”

“Never, ever fuck with what is mine,” he says.

“Because around you,” he says, “I feel the oddest urge to use my power to create rather than destroy.”