“Must you question everything?” he says. “Because I said so.”

I set the article of clothing aside. “Unless you force it on me yourself, I’m not wearing a damn dress.”

The truth is, I could put the dress on; it would probably look less ridiculous than the oversized, travel-stained nightgown I’m wearing, but fuck this horseman and his demands.

Famine gives another long-suffering sigh. “Last time I’m going to ask nicely: Put. It. On.”

“No.”

In the darkness I swear I see that evil little smile of his make an appearance. “Fine.”

Fine?

I’m perplexed, even as he approaches me. But then he pulls his dagger from his belt.

“What are you—?”

He grabs my dress by the collar, and—riiiip. He drags the blade down the fabric. As he does so, the material parts, revealing my flesh beneath.

“What the hell are you doing?” I almost sound scandalized.

“That was your only dress, wasn’t it?” Famine says, like the asshole he is. “Pity it’s ruined. Now, put the fucking dress on.”

“You think I care about exposing myself?” I do. “I’ll walk around bare-breasted before I put—”

“Your shoes are going next.” He reaches for my boots, his blade still poised.

“Okay—okay!” I say, mostly because it’s hard to come by a decent set of shoes these days. “I hate you, but okay,” I mutter.

I grab the dress as he watches me with steely eyes. I know he’s not going to leave, so I don’t bother asking him to. I’ve lost enough power plays today as it is.

Slipping off the bed, I shuck off the remains of my nightgown then shake out the dress, trying to determine what it looks like. It seems to be wine colored, but I can’t be sure in the growing darkness. It has enough glittery pieces to it that I can tell it’s something ostentatious.

A line of buttons run up the back of the dress, and I have to pause to unbutton each one. Once the opening is wide enough, I step into the dress. I pull it up, feeling the beaded bodice and the ruffled skirt that’s cut high in the front and low in the back. It’s a little loose, but it works well enough.

All at once I have a flashback to my nights at the bordello, wearing dresses that cinched up the back, rouging my face in front of my vanity.

I’m getting pretty again, and I’m actually not too fond of that fact.

“Happy?” I say sullenly, turning to the horseman.

“Mmm.” He makes a noncommittal sound.

“You’ll need to button it for me.”

“Do it yourself,” he throws back.

“I can’t reach the buttons, Mr. I’ve-never-worn-a-fucking-dress-before-and-have-no-idea-how-one-actually-works.”

He glares at me.

“Or—I could not wear it,” I add.

After a moment, he approaches me. “Where are they?”

“The buttons?” I reply. “Down my back—along my spine.”

Famine tosses his dagger onto the bed, freeing up his hands. Gruffly he grabs my good shoulder and turns me around so my back is facing him. I feel the brush of his fingertips as he pulls the material together. 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.

A hundred and twenty years later, the Reaper finishes buttoning me up. I pull out the hair that’s inadvertently gotten tucked into the dress and I turn around.

The horseman is already on his way out.

“Follow me,” he calls over his shoulder.

I hesitate, my eyes moving to the bed where the Reaper tossed his blade only minutes ago. On a whim I lean over the bed and grasp the weapon, tucking it into one of my boots. Days ago I wasn’t brave enough to hide a knife on my person. But a lot has changed in that time.

I take a couple steps, making sure I don’t slice my ankle.

Am I really going to dare the horseman’s wrath by doing this?

I think of the hours spent tied to the bed while dozens of people died.

Yes, I think I am.

Dagger now secured, I trudge out of the room.

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.

“Enough of this, Ana.” His gaze drops to my borrowed boots, and his irritated expression deepens.

“What?” I say defensively. “You gave me a dress, not shoes.”

He looks heavenward, then resumes walking once more. “C’mon, flower.”

“You still haven’t told me where we’re going.” Earlier, he had mentioned some sort of celebration in passing, but I haven’t heard anything about it since. The dress, however, does seem to fit the occassion.

Famine doesn’t respond, and a wave of trepidation passes over me. Whatever his plans are, they can’t possibly be good.

Outside, his horse is already waiting for him, along with several of his men. The greasy stench of smoke and charred bodies is stronger out here, and I have to swallow back my rising bile.

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.”

With that, the Reaper grabs me by the waist and hauls me onto his steed. A second later he follows me up, and then we’re riding off into the darkness.

I’m still processing that little exchange.

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.”