“I don’t like—” He seems to stop himself, then exhales. “I don’t want you to take care of me.”

I move to his arms, cleaning the good one, my eyes catching on the green glyphs that wrap around his wrists like shackles.

“Has anyone ever taken care of you?” I ask, my tone light.

“I don’t need anyone to,” he says, and I can hear the frown in his voice.

I don’t say anything right way, instead picking up his injured arm and gently running the washcloth over the fully healed area.

“Everyone needs to be taken care of,” I finally say, dipping the cloth into the water.

“Not my kind.”

“Especially your kind.”

Famine turns to look at me, the injury above his eye still red, and I use the movement to catch his jaw. I let him study my features as I bring the cloth to his face. This close to him, I appreciate just how savagely pretty he is. Pretty and feral.

Using great care, I wipe around the edges of the wound. As I do so, I feel Famine’s hand slide up my leg, then down it, the action drawing out goosebumps.

That all ends the moment my washcloth touches his open wound.

He hisses at the touch, trying to jerk his head away. But between my hold on his jaw and my legs pinning him in place, there’s nowhere for him to go.

Apparently, this injury isn’t as healed as I assumed it was.

“Stop it,” he grates out, his fingers squeezing my leg.

“Just—hold still,” I say, my attention on the wound.

He doesn’t, instead trying to shake off my hold like a wild cat.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake, stop it,” I say, gripping his jaw tighter. It’s not like Famine can’t handle the pain. That’s exactly what he’s been doing for the last twelve hours. And this is nothing compared to what he endured.

The horseman’s eyes flash and his gaze thins, but he listens to me.

Methodically, I finish cleaning his wound, then the rest of his face.

He watches me as I work, frowning deeply. But after a minute or so, he resettles.

I move from his face to his hair, setting the cloth aside to run my fingers through his caramel locks. At my touch he closes his eyes, and I feel a spark of satisfaction that even horsemen enjoy a good head rub.

“You haven’t reacted to my nudity,” he says, out of nowhere.

Oh, I’ve reacted. I’d have to be dead not to.

But I keep that to myself.

“Am I supposed to?” I say instead.

He opens his eyes. “In the past, people have.”

That makes me pause, and I wonder again what sort of man Famine was before he was caught and tortured.

“I’m used to seeing naked men,” I answer smoothly.

Though I’m not used to seeing men like Famine. He stands apart in that regard.

“Hmm …” he muses. His hand begins to move up and down my leg again, and his touch is making me oddly breathless.

How long has it been since I’ve ached for someone?

I can’t honestly remember. True lust is a rare thing when you’ve oversaturated yourself with sex. The whole process turns a bit mechanical, unfortunately.

“Would you like me to wash … the rest of you?” My voice doesn’t sound like my own. It’s too low.

Famine hesitates. Then—

“No. I’ve been done with this damnable bath since before I got in.” But just like me, his voice doesn’t sound as it should; it’s hoarser than usual. And then, of course, there was his hesitation, as though he toyed with the idea of me touching him lower.

Famine stands, exiting the basin to grab a towel, and I have to force myself not to stare at his backside.

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.

I leave the bathroom while Famine changes, trying to be a halfway decent person.

As soon as I re-enter the bedroom, the horseman’s bed beckons to me. Now that the danger has passed and my adrenaline has all been used up, I can feel my own exhaustion settling into my bones.

“Get some sleep,” Famine says from behind me, toweling off his hair. “No one will disturb you.”

There is no one left to disturb me—no one except for the horseman himself.

“What will you do?” I ask over my shoulder, even as I move over to the bed, slipping into the soft sheets.

“What I do best.”

My eyes meet his.

“I’ll make all those men suffer.”

Chapter 33

A soft tapping noise wakes me.

I blink my eyes slowly, taking in the dusky light that coats the room.

Must’ve slept the entire day away.

Yawning, I sit up and rub my eyes.

There’s a blissful moment of ignorance, where I can’t place exactly where or when I am. And then the moment passes and my memories flood my mind.

Aw, fuck.

I pinch the bridge of my nose, like somehow that’s going to make it all go away.

Tap-tap-tap. That sound again.

My gaze moves towards it.

Famine leans against a nearby wall, his fingers tapping along the side of the crystal tumbler he holds. He’s giving me a funny look.

I sit up a little straighter, waking up fast now that I realize I have the full attention of the horseman.

“What time is it?” I ask, glancing out the window, where the sky is a greyish purple.

The Reaper doesn’t respond, just taps those fingers along the side of his glass. He looks wholly untouched, like he was never butchered apart to begin with.

“You’re better,” I say.

“Mmm …” he responds distractedly, those sharp green eyes still taking me in.

“What?” I finally say, because his focus is getting awkward. “Is there a big-ass bug in my hair or something?”

“Do you regret it?” the horseman asks, his voice neutral.

“Regret what?” But then I see it in his eyes.

Saving him.

I assume he’s referring to last night.

“Should I?” I ask him.

He takes a sip of his drink, studying me like I’m some sort of puzzle he can’t figure out.

“Why did you do it?” he asks.

“Save you?” I raise my eyebrows as I look at him. “Because you needed saving.”

He frowns, and I’m pretty sure he hates how simple I’ve made the situation sound.

I thought we were beyond this. I assumed that last night brought the two of us closer, but now he seems skeptical and distant.

My gaze moves away from the Reaper and out the window. I can’t see the main house from here, but I can sense it out there. Somewhere inside it, a dozen men are trussed up.

The thought makes me feel vaguely nauseous.

“Is everyone … ?”

“Dead?” Famine finishes for me.

I nod my head.

He takes another drink. “Unfortunately.”

I sense that if the Reaper could’ve, he would’ve kept them alive and lingering for just as long as he was once kept alive and suffering.

He lifts his glass. “Want one?” he asks, scattering my thoughts.