The man sobs, and Famine stares down at him.

I’m pinned in place, my breath caught in my throat. I have no idea what the horseman’s doing, or how I feel about it, but I can’t look away.

There’s a pause. Then—

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

Crack, crack, crack.

More screams follow, then breathless, agonized cries.

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.”

Chapter 32

I have to force myself to breathe as Famine straightens.

He defended me. I mean, he tortured a man—and killed several others—so I should probably focus on how bad that is.

But I’ve long ago accepted that I’m no saint.

So I’m focusing on the fact that in the last couple hours, Famine has made it very clear that he feels something for me. Something deeper than loyalty. My skin tingles, my entire body electrified by the strange emotions I’m feeling.

Famine rises, walking back towards the cart. His eyes are bright with all sorts of emotions, the most prominent of them menace. But when they lock with mine, they soften, and for a moment I swear I see something both hopeful and vulnerable within them. As quickly as the expression comes, it goes again.

The Reaper moves to the side of the cart and reaches out his good hand to me. Blood is splattered across his armor, and the sight of his bloody attire is so at odds with his current chivalry.

I take his hand and let him help me off the cart. Once I’m down, he releases my hand.

“I have one last thing I need to attend to,” he says softly.

I part my lips to respond, but the horseman is already turning around and stalking back towards the estate, noticing Heitor long enough for the plant that holds the broken man to slide out of the horseman’s way. At the movement, Heitor cries out, the sound dying away to a whimper.

When Famine gets to the front door, the plant blocking the entrance now curls in on itself, withering away so that the horseman can get through. Famine lifts a booted foot and gives the door a solid kick. Wood splinters and the door crashes open, banging against the inside wall.

Distantly, I can hear several frightened shouts coming from the house. Famine pauses at the threshold, taking in whatever sight is waiting for him.

I start moving again, heading for the mansion just as the horseman steps inside. I pass Heitor, my eyes meeting his for a moment.

The once proud drug lord is nothing more than a broken man, his skin grey and withered, his face wan, and his limbs contorted in unnatural angles.

“Please …” he whispers.

This is where I should feel pity. Too bad I’ve used it all up on the people actually deserving of it.

My gaze slides away and I walk past him, stepping inside the mansion.

Ahead of me, Heitor’s remaining men are huddled in the living room, their weapons on the ground. They kneel before the Reaper, their heads bowed, like they intend to serve him faithfully.

As though last night didn’t prove with painful clarity just how much loyalty they’re truly capable of.

These last few men must’ve realized they bet on the losing horse.

“Oh, this is precious,” Famine says ahead of me. “I guess shooting me was just an accident?” He’s clearly remembering the same thing I am.

One of the men looks up, and my eyes widen when I notice just how sickly he looks. As though his very life were withering away before my eyes …

This must be that same, awful talent Famine demonstrated on Heitor.

“We didn’t want to hurt you,” the guard rasps out, staring at Famine. “Heitor made us.”

“Do you think I actually give a fuck about your reasons?” Famine asks. The ground beneath us trembles, then begins to lift, the marble floor cracking as the tiles are displaced. I stagger, bracing myself against a nearby wall as a forest of plants rise up from the ground, wrapping themselves around the men.

Even in their weakened states, a few try to run. It’s useless—it’s always useless. The branches and vines snap out like snakes striking, wrapping themselves around them.

My stomach still quakes at the crunch of bones breaking and the men’s agonized shouts.

The Reaper turns from the room of guards and comes over to me. He closes his eyes, breathing in and out.

When he opens them again, he says, “It is done.”

“What’s done?”

The horseman gives me a meaningful look.

I don’t know if I sense it, or if I just put the pieces together, but eventually I realize Famine means the people here. The people of São Paulo.

This is another thing I’ll never get used to—that the horseman can mercilessly kill entire towns in a matter of moments.

There must be something in my expression because Famine frowns at me. “Come now,” he says. “You mean to tell me you’re actually upset about this?”

Yes. Of course I’m upset over absolutely everything except for maybe the last dozen deaths I witnessed.

Gentler than his mood seems to indicate, Famine takes my arm and leads me forward through the jungle of tangled vines and human limbs. We cross the room, then head out to the courtyard.

“Where are we going?” I say, feeling like I’m walking in a daze.

“Your room,” the horseman says, and there’s a note to his voice …

I glance at him, but his face tells me nothing about his mood.

We wind our way through the courtyard and enter the wing of the estate that houses his room and mine. I stiffen a little when I see the door to my room open.

Famine releases my arm and saunters ahead of me, heading down the hall before slipping into my room. I’m slower to approach, my heart beginning to pick up speed the closer I get. It’s a ridiculous reaction; I know that Heitor is imprisoned in one of the Reaper’s horrific plants, but I still have to take several steadying breaths and force my legs to move towards that room.

Inside, the horseman’s gaze scans the surroundings, taking in the rumpled bed, the candelabra, and the few droplets of blood on the ground. After a moment, he moves to a nearby closet and opens the door. I can see feminine garments hanging inside. Apparently Heitor kept this room stocked for whatever poor soul stayed here before me.

Famine begins yanking them off, one by one, letting them fall to the ground.

“What are you doing?” I ask Famine.

“You’re staying in my room,” he says, not looking back at me.

“Why?” I ask, curious. I mean, I’m not against this arrangement, just piqued that Famine’s all for it.

He scoops the pile of garments up. “I would think the answer is self-explanatory,” he says. “You were ambushed when you were alone. I don’t want that happening again.”

There’s a tightness in my chest, one I’m trying to ignore.

The horseman strides past me, the light, lacy garments fluttering under his arm.

“Those aren’t even mine,” I say, watching him leave the room.