Famine (The Four Horsemen, #3)

by Laura Thalassa

Ever so slowly he gets closer and closer to me. My heart is thundering. And then he’s passing me by, looking like a god. His hair is the color of melted caramel, his sun-kissed skin only a shade or two lighter. There’s the sharp, chiseled line of his jaw, the high brow and cheekbones, and the haughty curve of his lips. Most striking of all are those moss green eyes of his. Devilish eyes. His shoulders are broad, and that bronze armor, embossed with spiraling floral designs, fits snugly against his powerful, sculpted physique. Up close, his beauty is a shock to my system. Far, far more otherworldly than I remembered. Despite Famine’s handsome features and my own breathless excitement, the first true tendrils of fear take root.

Famine is still laughing and laughing and laughing. The man has officially lost it. Somewhere along the way, his laughter changes, deepening until he’s not laughing but sobbing. I lay in his arms, feeling even more awkward and uncomfortable than I did before. I don’t know what I expected when I saved him, but I don’t think it was this. The third horseman of the apocalypse is having a mental breakdown right next to me.

I suck in a shocked breath when I truly take in the horseman. All of him is strange and lovely. When I found him yesterday, he wore blood and grime in place of clothing. But now he’s fully dressed, and over his black shirt and pants he wears bronze armor that definitely wasn’t there last night. The metal breastplate gleams in the morning light. How … ? Did he leave at some point to get his things? But then my focus returns to his powerful build. Even kneeling, he looks intimidatingly large, and I don’t have to see the skin beneath his armor to know he has a body made for battle. That’s nothing, though, compared to his face. He’s … there aren’t words for this sort of male beauty. His caramel colored hair curls around the nape of his neck, and those brilliant green eyes are made all the brighter against his tan skin. I don’t know where to look—at the sharp slice of his jawline or those high cheekbones—or those soft, sinner lips. He looks like some mythological figure taken straight out of a painting. He is a mythological figure.

“I’m not of this world, flower.” That’s not really an answer, but I’m sort of stuck on the fact that he called me flower. That’s a compliment, right? Looking at him, I want it to be a compliment. Are you seriously crushing on one of the horsemen of the apocalypse, Ana?

Even now I taste bile as I recall the memory. “You,” the horseman says. His gaze searches mine. “I had wondered …” “What happened to me?” I say, finishing his sentence for him. “I survived.”

I grimace up at Famine, breathing through my nose to keep my emotions under control. “I wanted to hurt you.” He raises his eyebrows. “My balls are sore, little flower, I’ll give you that.” I feel my cheeks flush with anger even as the horror of my situation sets in. “Fuck you.” The horseman presses his boot down harder against me. “You tried that already, remember? I still don’t want your pussy.”

“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 horseman’s gaze drops to the wounds that decorate my torso. I actually hear his sharp inhale. And now I think I understand his reason for lingering—he wanted to see my wounds. He pushes away from the counter, his gaze locked on my scabbed-over wounds. “They tore you apart.” I glance down, and the memory hits me again. I can feel those men’s hands on me and I can hear the wet, meaty sound of their knives stabbing me over and over again. “There are eleven different marks,” I say. I don’t know why I tell him. “And I imagine you laid for a long time in pain, alone and frightened.” My steely gaze flicks up to him. “I wasn’t just frightened.” I was angry. He must see the anger in my eyes when I look at him. “Yes,” he says, “I know that look well.” I force my emotions back down.

“How’s your abdominal wound?” I ask, draping my arms over the sides. My tits are wantonly exposed. I’m honestly enjoying the hell out of this; I hope the horseman is rattled. Famine narrows his gaze on me. “Gone.” “Too bad.” “My balls are better too—thanks for asking,” he says. “I wasn’t worried about your balls. It seems you have no use for them.” My mouth curves into a smirk as I speak. I really am enjoying myself.

But, as the poet’s might put it, fuck that shit. “A papaya?” I say, recognizing the fruit. It’s not even a full papaya either; just an itsy bitsy sliver. “I’m a full-bodied woman, not a bird.” “Perhaps you forgot who I am—Famine,” he stresses. “Feel fortunate that I’m feeding you at all.” “I want coffee. Then I’ll feel fortunate. Maybe. Some cake would definitely make me feel grateful.” “You are a human-shaped headache,” he mutters. “What a compliment to headaches everywhere.” “Do you ever stop talking?” “Only if you put something in my mouth,” I say. “I’m partial to food, but dicks work too.” He glances heavenward. Ah, blessed reaction.

“If I give you one of your damned compliments,” he growls, “will you stop questioning me?” My eyebrows hike up with surprise. He’s actually going to try complimenting me? This I have to hear. “Sure,” I say. But in the silence that follows, I brace myself for some stinging barb. “You have a lovely voice.” I feel an unexpected flush of warmth at his words. I tilt my head in confusion. “But I thought you wanted me to stop talking,” I say. “About me. Talk your ass off about anything else.” “I’m sitting here with a man who says he’s not actually a man, riding a horse that might not actually be a horse—” “He’s a horse.” “—and I’m supposed to not talk about any of it.” “Precisely.” There’s a long pause. “Fine. I guess that leaves me to talk about sex. Moist, thick, wet sex.” Another beat of silence passes, then— “Would you like another compliment?”

My eyes rise to his, and I see it in his own gaze. Reaper-boy fucked up. He was kind to me, and he knows it. I break out into a sly smile. “Aww, you don’t really hate me, do you?” His gaze drops to my mouth, and a muscle in his jaw jumps.

It takes Famine a laughably short amount of time to close in on me. He catches me around the waist and the two of us go tumbling into the dirt. I cough, the heavy press of the Reaper at my back making it hard to breathe. After a moment, he flips me over. “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 looks at me, gobsmacked; his response seems to shock him more than it does me. He searches my face, like it holds some answers. Gentler, he says, “You saved me once. I am going to return the favor, even if it means forcing you to stay with me.” My mind flashes back to the way Famine looked at me all those years ago when he realized I had saved him. Like a drowning man clinging to a lifeline.

Famine pulls me back to my feet. Even once I’m standing, however, he doesn’t let my hand go. It’s not until the two of us are in the saddle and his horse begins to move that he relaxes his hold on me. But then, the arm that held me fast last night is back around my waist, pinning me against his armor. I don’t think the Reaper is afraid of me diving off his horse or falling asleep. I think, despite all the horseman’s hate and anger, he doesn’t half mind touching me after all.

“One other inhuman thing about me, flower.” Famine turns his head slightly towards me. “I don’t simply exist, I hunger.”

Without meaning to, my eyes drink in his wide shoulders and tapered waist. His bronze armor gleams under the sun. He glances over his shoulder at me, that caramel colored hair blowing about his face, and my breath catches. He looks like a hero from some bygone age, his features painfully perfect.

Riiiiip. He removes a strip of material from the bottom of his shirt, bringing it up to my shoulder. 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.

Clumsily, the Reaper tries and tries again to get the small cloth-covered buttons through the little loop openings that edge the fabric. My stomach tightens at his touch, and I can’t help but feel his breath as it stirs the hair against my neck. I should not be reacting this way to him—not when he literally just untied me from the bed.

Halfway down the hallway, Famine glances over his shoulder at me. I think he just means to make sure I’m behind him, but the moment he catches sight of me, he does a double take, stumbling to a halt. Now that’s a reaction. Out here in the hallway, the candlelight better illuminates my outfit, and Famine uses that light to look me over, starting with the hem of my dress—which is in fact a deep red color—and moving his gaze up. He looks like he doesn’t know what hit him. I raise an eyebrow. “Are you sure you don’t like sex?” I say. “You’re looking at me as though you might.” The horseman rips his gaze from my body, meeting my eyes. “I am not looking at you in any way” “Yep, you are. You definitely look like you could bang one out. I’m real good at quickies—”

Famine growls—growls!—in response, much to my delight.

Several of the guards’ eyes go to my exposed legs. One of them glances from my calves to my face, and I raise my eyebrows at him. I mean, really? We are literally breathing in human remains and he wants to check out a pair of shapely legs? For shame. The Reaper steps in front of me. “You want a dress too?” he asks the offending man. I raise my eyebrows. I assumed the horseman didn’t notice these sorts of nonverbal interactions. Apparently, I was wrong. The man sputters some response. “No?” the horseman interrupts. “Then stop eye-fucking the girl.”

I glance over my shoulder at Famine. “You know what eye-fucking is?” I have the oddest urge to laugh. The Reaper looks down at me. “I wasn’t born yesterday.” I gaze at him a little longer, and then I grin, my lips spreading wide. “What?” he says. “Nothing.” “What?” “If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were jealous.” “Flower, I don’t get jealous.” “Uh huh.” “What is that tone?” he demands. “What tone?” I ask innocently. “Do you not believe me?” Famine’s voice rises with his outrage, and it is music to my ears. This is what I’d been missing with the Reaper. I can play a man like a hand of cards, but a horseman … I thought I was out of my element, but it seems as though they too can behave like men. “I’m not jealous,” he insists. “Sure,” I say, tucking a lock of dark hair behind my ear. “Damn you, Ana. Stop toying with your voice. I’m not jealous.” “I’m not the one getting worked up,” I say, swinging my feet back and forth. God but I’m enjoying this. Famine lets out a frustrated growl, but doesn’t respond. I smile for the rest of the ride.

I glare at him. “I can get off on my own.” “Can you now? That’s news to me. You’re always harping on getting everyone else off.” Wait, was that a sex joke?

“You think I don’t know pain?” I say over him. My voice comes out louder and angrier than I intend. “I lost both my parents by the time I was a teenager, my aunt abused me, and my cousins did nothing to stop her, but that didn’t prevent me from mourning them all when you killed my entire town. “And then, left with nothing, I had to fend for myself, and I consider myself lucky that my madam was the one who found me. “I was seventeen when I started to sell my body. Seventeen. Still just a teenager.” I step forward as I talk, closing the distance between us. “You think I don’t know pain? Degradation? I could sit here all night telling you about the horrors I’ve endured—the clients who beat me, who raped me, who told me I was worthless all while using me. Just because it hasn’t completely broken me doesn’t mean I don’t understand all the ways we can hurt one another. “So don’t act like you invented pain. It’s an insult to the rest of us.”

“I’m older than many of the mountains we’ve passed,” he says. “I have seen the world before humans ever touched it.” And he will see the world after humans leave it. “And what about Death?” I ask, switching topics a little. “What about him?” the Reaper asks. “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.”

I step in so close to the horseman that our chests nearly brush. He’s giving me an angry look. I reach out and touch his cheek, for once not restraining my baser impulses. Just as he’s beginning to rear back, surprised and a little horrified, my hand goes around his neck and I pull his head towards me. Lifting to my tiptoes, I press my lips to his and kiss him.

I’m still curious. He felt like sin against my lips. And damn me, but now all I want is to do it again—if only to see another tree blow up. Famine stalks back to his horse. “What?” I call after him. “Did I say something wrong? Don’t be mad—you’re much less pretty when you’re mad.” In response, he growls. I grin. So much fun to tease.

“I am not easily impressed,” the man says, looking first at me, then at the Reaper, “but you, my friend, have impressed me.” This must be the home’s owner. I can’t imagine what sort of man he is if he can take in all this carnage and not be afraid. “How is he still talking?” I whisper to Famine. The horseman is more of a kill first, ask questions later type of guy. “I’m letting him,” the Reaper replies smoothly.

Finally, he says, “Someone important. Give her the same treatment you’d give me.” My heart picks up speed at his words, and for a moment, I remember what it was like to press my lips against him and discover that he kisses just as cruelly as he kills. Famine stares at me for several more seconds, his gaze moving to my lips. I can almost believe that he’s thinking about that kiss, too. The one he was angry about.

“Where are we going?” I ask. “To my room, of course,” he responds. I stumble over my feet. Famine glances at me and smiles secretively, like he knows exactly where my mind is. My gaze goes to his lips, and a sudden, shocking realization hits me: I want to kiss him again. Not to tease him or to distract him, but to taste those lips again in earnest and to feel the press of his body against mine. I’ve absolutely lost it. “W-why?” I ask. He gives me another loaded glance, and I feel that look right to my core. “Would you rather I leave you at the door to your room?” he asks. “No,” I say too quickly, and ugh, I want to cringe. I sound like a horny teenager. The Reaper’s mouth curves up on one side and the world feels like it’s turned on its axis.

There’s a brief flash of pain, then several beads of blood drip onto the circular tray. The metal pan dips as it takes on the weight of my blood, then lifts, then dips again, until it’s only a little lower than the other, empty pan. My eyes flick to Famine. “What does that mean?” “It means that you’re a decently good person.” I give him an incredulous look. “Decently good?” I say. “I saved your ass once upon a time. That didn’t earn me any heaven points?” “You’ve also tried to kill my ass, in case you’ve forgotten, so no.” “Fine. Let’s see how you size up then on your little holy scale,” I challenge.

And it does seem to be agonizing. Heitor curls in on himself, crying out at some pain I can’t see. “Please,” he rasps. “I can … still help … I’m … sorry … misunderstanding.” There’s a pause, then I hear the Reaper’s low laughter. “A misunderstanding? No, no, my friend. It was one thing to try to hurt me. But then you went and tried to hurt her.” Famine glances over his shoulder, casting me a look. In the lavender glow of the morning, the horseman stares at me with a fervent sort of intensity. At that look, unbidden warmth spreads through me. The horseman has now defended me multiple times, and I can’t help but feel … cherished. Does Famine realize that’s my weakness? For a girl who’s never been truly beloved, this is how you ensnare me.

“No. You came to violate her. And my friend, we’re both discovering that nothing stokes my rage like trying to harm my flower.”

Famine crouches next to Rocha and laughs. “You’re not going to die, Heitor. You haven’t begged enough yet. But you will. And even then I’ll make you linger. Because, believe it or not, you are not the worst thing to walk this earth.” The Reaper leans in close. “I am.”

First he removes his boots; then, piece by piece, he unfastens his armor, his expression saying plainly that he hates all of this. And yet there’s no shyness or embarrassment when it comes to stripping. Not that he has anything to be embarrassed about … He levels the same displeased look at me even as he pulls off his shirt and then drops his pants and whatever he wears beneath them, tossing the last of his clothes over the side of the tub. I’m the one who has to school my features to keep my expression disinterested, because Holy Mother of God, even scowling at me, Famine is the most beautiful man I’ve seen in all my life. Every centimeter of him is sculpted muscle, his wide shoulders tapering down to a narrow waist and a cock that is somehow pretty, despite the fact that it is every bit as displeased as the rest of Famine. My gaze travels back up his body, lingering on his glowing tattoos, which only seem to heighten his appearance. “Well?” he says. “Are you done staring?” I have to stifle a smile. Moody Famine is surprisingly fun to be around—at least when there’s no one present for him to kill.

Lord help me, but you could bounce a coin off that ass and I shouldn’t be thinking thoughts like this about the horseman. Especially after I made that grand statement about being unmoved by his nudity. Because my pussy? Oh, she’s moved.

“Hey,” Famine says, his voice going gentle, so gentle. “Hey.” He comes forward and kneels in front of me. The horseman takes my glass from me, setting it aside, along with his own. He spreads my legs apart, just so that he can move in closer, his armor rigid against my inner thighs. Then Famine takes my face in his hands, cupping my cheeks and brushing away my tears. “Don’t cry.” I lift my gaze to his, feeling miserable. His eyes lock on a tear. He gives a fierce frown, his eyes agonized. “You saved me,” he says.

I realize as I watch his throat work, that I really want those lips back on me. And those hands—hands that have cut down so many—I want them to slide over my skin. I want them to relieve this growing ache I feel when I’m around him. Famine lowers the bottle, giving me a suspicious look. “What are you thinking about?” he asks. Hell no am I going to admit my true thoughts. “Just thinking about Death,” I reply. Wrong response. His sharp gaze grows sharper still. “Whatever you think of him,” he says, “he does not deserve that look on your face.” “What look?” I ask, touching my cheek. “Like you want to fuck him.” It’s not Death I want to fuck … Oh God, I really shouldn’t want that. Because Famine has issues.

“So, besides blinding men,” he says, “what else do you like to do? Read? Sing? Dance? Wait, forget about that last one. I know you can’t dance for shit.” It’s such a rude goddamn thing to say, but a laugh slips out anyway. I’ve sort of developed a soft spot for Famine’s asshole-ish personality. “Fuck you,” I respond good-naturedly. “Mmmm …” Again, he gives me a speculative look, like he’s taking my words literally. The thought heats my skin.

His lips are soft like satin. I don’t remember that from the last time I kissed him. And like the last time I kissed him, Famine doesn’t immediately react. I think he must be shocked. The only reason the kiss continues at all is because I’ve nearly drunk my weight in booze, and my self-confidence is at an all-time high. But then the Reaper’s lips do begin to move, and suddenly he’s returning the kiss with a passion that I’m struggling to match. He reaches out, catching me by the waist. With a deft yank he pulls me onto his lap. I rearrange myself so that I end up straddling him. The horseman holds me tight against his body, his hands moving to my hips. All the while his lips devour mine. I’m shocked to feel that beneath me, he’s hard. I’d seen his heated looks and I’d read the interest in his body language, but this is actual proof that Famine feels desire—and for me of all people.

My hands slide to his cheeks, cradling his face. It’s frightening how in this moment I can just sideline every evil deed he’s done. All because at the very root of him, there’s something that calls to me. Maybe it’s that kernel of kindness I’ve glimpsed. Maybe it’s his awfulness or his vulnerability. Maybe it’s nothing at all, and I’ve simply deluded myself that we’re alike. Famine’s palms skim up my sides, his fingers pressing into the flesh of my back. All while his mouth works mine. He parts my lips, and I have a moment of surprise that he actually knows how to kiss—and how to kiss well. How many women has the horseman been with? Famine pulls away, his breathing ragged. Why? His eyes seem to ask. Why did you kiss me? My pulse speeds up. Why indeed? Because I like making poor choices, and you look like the worst one yet.

“Kissing you again was …” Bewitching. Intriguing. Addicting, “a mistake,” I say, trying to convince myself of that very fact. I can still taste Famine on my tongue, and my lips are raw from the kiss, and all of it is addling my mind. “It was a mistake,” he agrees. “Let’s make another and another. We can regret them all tomorrow.” My eyebrows lift. Is he serious?

“What are you thinking?” he asks. He mocked me for overthinking a minute ago, but now he seems starved for my thoughts. “So many things,” I say. “Enumerate them.” “I think these look like shackles,” I say, turning his wrist back and forth as I stare at the markings, “but they’re beautiful and they remind me that you’re not human in the least, and I like that about you.” Quieter, I add, “To be honest, I like far too much about you.” The alcohol has loosened my lips.

If he’s the universe, I feel like I’m entering it with this kiss.

He lets my body slip through his hands so that he can grab the low-cut collar of my filmy dress— Riiiip. He tears it clean down the middle, exposing me almost completely. I guess I’m not the only one impatient. I give the Reaper and his armor a hopeless look. “Well, that’s just not fair.” A low laugh slips out of him, and it pulls a shiver from me.

His gaze narrows, and some of the desire clouding it now vanishes. “What is it now?” he asks. “I want to look at you,” I say. “You want to look at me,” he repeats tonelessly. My gaze sweeps over him, from that beautiful, wicked face that I’ve all but memorized to the less familiar parts of his body. His shoulders are pleasingly wide, and then there’s those glowing tattoos that ring his neck and upper chest like some sort of thick necklace. The pale light of them illuminates the plants around us. My gaze moves lower, over a muscled torso that God just gave him because for whatever reason Famine has to go around looking like a babe while he kills us all. His torso tapers off to a slim waist and— This is a well-endowed man. “Well?” he says. “Is your primitive human brain satisfied?” he says. I flash him a wolfish smile, approaching him once more. “You’re really pretty,” I say. “Pretty?” he says derisively. I walk into his arms. “It’s a compliment.” He grimaces at that. The horseman scoops me up and carries me forward.

“And, for what it’s worth,” he adds, “you’re also pretty. Excessively so.” I feel my face heat from all the praise. “Why are you telling me this?” His eyes are steady on mine. “Because you are human and I imagine you like compliments far more than I do. And for whatever insufferable reason I want to give you many.” My heart begins to pound loudly. “Now,” he says, a sly smile curving along his lips as he drapes himself over me, “enough of this.” He punctuates the thought by recapturing my lips. His mouth is demanding and everything about the kiss feels intimate.

I stare dazedly above me at the dark sky, trying to remember how Famine and I got here, with his face pressed against my core. We were supposed to be enemies, right? I don’t think enemies do this …

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. Oh my God. It actually hits me then. Fuck my tits and my asshole too. I’m falling for this psycho.

“Sleepovers in derelict buildings are kind of our thing,” I say, softly. “Mmm.” I drop my gaze back to Famine, and damnit, he’s still looking at me like that. “Stop it,” I whisper. “Stop what?” he says, not looking away from me. Stop making me feel lighter than air and heavier than iron. Stop sucking me under. “Nothing’s changed between us,” I insist. I don’t know how I manage to say that lie in a normal voice. The Reaper smiles at me then, his expression wry, like I’m the naïve one and he’s the one with the worldly experience. I glance away, unable to hold his gaze. I’m desperate for a distraction. Anything that might make me forget I’m incurably attracted to him.