Once the last man stands, the Reaper’s brutal eyes cut to me. Right now I can see how close to the surface his violence is. He beckons me forward with his hand.

Damnit, I have to actually do something.

I move slowly off the horse, barely making a fool of myself this time when I dismount—thank God. Behind me, Famine’s steed walks off; clomping across the driveway before heading off into the dead fields around us.

Even the horse has the good sense to make himself scarce.

I cross the expansive courtyard, to where the horseman waits. I have the attention of the entire gathering, and my skin crawls from it. Don’t get me wrong, under the right circumstances, I preen under excessive attention. But these are not the right circumstances, and the looks I’m receiving now range from I-want-to-hate-bang-you to fuck-you-demon-whore.

What a group of fine gentlemen.

I sidle up to the Reaper’s side, and his hand goes to my uninjured shoulder.

Famine’s gaze moves to the mansion. “This is our house now.”

Our house?

Also, what the hell, Famine? As if the target on my back wasn’t already big enough.

“You will all serve us,” the horseman continues. “And I expect you”—he points his scythe at Heitor—“to personally bring me dinner. And to draw my bath. And,” he squeeze’s my shoulder, “my companion’s.”

Jesus. If there was ever a time not to rile a human up, now would be it. But it’s like the horseman is deliberately baiting the kingpin, hoping he’ll snap under the strain.

“Of course,” Heitor says smoothly. His eyes are frigid, but he smiles as though none of this bothers him. The sight of that empty smile is nearly as chilling as Famine’s own nefarious grin.

I’m going to get my throat slit tonight. I’m sure of it.

Heitor’s eyes settle on me again, moving over my body proprietarily.

“Who is this?” he asks, giving me the same kind of look a client might after they bought me for an evening. Like I’m his to do with as he pleases.

I have to fight back a scowl.

Famine’s gaze moves from Rocha to me. The horseman’s expression doesn’t change, and yet I can see him weighing his words.

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.

“Come inside and we can discuss what it is you’d like me to do for you,” Heitor says, interrupting us.

I blink, turning away from Famine.

The cartel boss retreats towards the mansion, not glancing back to see whether we’re following or not. His men fall into line around him, and it’s clear that despite their bloody lips and pledged allegiance, Rocha is still the man in charge.

Famine starts forward, seemingly oblivious to the situation. I hurry after him.

“What are you doing?” I accuse him, keeping my voice low.

Famine’s face is devoid of emotion. “What I always do.”

“No, this is not what you always do,” I say heatedly, my voice hushed. “I’ve seen what you always do.” He chops people up, and the mouthier they are, the shittier he makes their deaths.

The Reaper’s eyes cut to me. “It’s almost as though you don’t trust me.”

Gah!

“I don’t trust you! But more importantly, I don’t trust our host—and you shouldn’t either.”

“I don’t.” The Reaper’s voice is icy. He glances at me, and something in my expression catches his attention. He turns to me more fully, his eyes bright with curiosity. “But tell me, little flower: what would you have me do?”

Like the hunter that he is, he’s sighted my own dark thoughts.

I part my lips to speak.

Kill them. Kill them just as you do everyone else.

I can’t force the words out. It’s one thing to see the Reaper kill, it’s another thing to encourage it.

But I want these men to die. There’s no sense denying it.

For the first time since we dismounted, Famine flashes me a wicked smile, looking delighted. “You’ve gotten a taste for blood, haven’t you, little flower?”

“I’m not saying that—”

“Enough.” His voice brokers no argument. “I’m aware of Heitor’s moral depravity. And unlike you, I am the hand of God, which means I choose when and how humans fall.”

This is not going to end well. I just know it.

Not even five minutes after we enter, Famine is already deep in conversation with Heitor’s men, clearly making his will known and going over logistics.

The horseman has made a habit of recruiting terrible men to do his bidding, but so far, those men have been nothing but sellouts and goons. These people, however, these are professional killers; they seem to wear their wickedness like a coat.

A figure steps in front of me, blocking my view of Famine.

“A woman like you shouldn’t concern yourself with this tedious business,” Heitor says.

I glance up and meet the drug lord’s eyes. They’re kind eyes. I wasn’t expecting that—for him to have kind eyes. Not that it means anything. Plenty of men with kind eyes have been rough with me. I think I prefer Famine’s eyes; he has the most truthful gaze of anyone I’ve ever met.

Heitor takes me by the elbow. “Why don’t I show you your rooms?”

Everything about this man agitates me, from his deceptive eyes to his misogynistic attitude to his misleadingly innocent offer.

I glance over at Famine, for once wishing he’d be his usual bossy self and insert himself into my business.

Heitor follows my gaze.

“Surely you don’t need his permission for everything,” he says, reading my look.

“You’d be surprised,” I respond.

“Come, come,” the older man says, tugging my arm and ushering me along. “Famine will be right where you left him.”

I’m used to catering to men’s needs. Perhaps that’s why I let Heitor lead me off without stronger protests.

I rub my arm as we move away from the main room, the voices behind us getting fainter and fainter. Heitor opens a door that leads out to a courtyard.

I step outside, and a moment later, he follows me. The door clicks behind us, sounding so loud. Or maybe it’s just my senses that are heightened now that I’m alone with the drug lord.

His arm moves to my back, and he places his palm disturbingly low—just above the curve of my ass.

My eyes flash to his, but he’s busy looking ahead, as though nothing is amiss.

“This way,” he says, pressing me on.

We cross the courtyard with its manicured gardens, skirting around a decorative pond before entering another wing of the estate.

“How does a woman like you get tangled up with a man like the Reaper?” Heitor asks casually.

I feel my throat bob as I look at him. He’s still staring straight ahead.

I bet you would hurt me in bed. Much of what I’ve learned at the bordello is how to read people.