Sex always felt like an exchange. I was a prostitute. I wasn’t getting paid to be adored. I was getting paid to slake someone’s lust. Famine’s expression changes, becoming empathetic—so, so empathetic. I think, when it comes to pain and vulnerability, he sees me more clearly than anyone else ever has. That warm, uncomfortable feeling blooms low in my belly. This time, I don’t fight it. The horseman brushes back my hair, his eyes moving between mine. “Tonight,” he says softly, “you’re going to forget all the ways you were mistreated. I’m going to make sure of it.”
