“That makes no sense,” I say, taking another swallow of the spiced rum I hold.

“One must live before one dies,” the horseman continues. “There’s a certain order to things—even divine things—especially divine things. My brothers and I come when we do because that is the nature of our purpose—and it’s the nature of your fates.”

Chapter 34

The horseman is sharing a lot of himself tonight. I mean, a lot a lot. More than he ever has. That’s what strikes me most as I rifle through the items in the pantry, grabbing the cassava chips and the cheese bread and setting them on the ground as well.

I can’t decide if Famine was always willing to share these parts of himself and I’m just now comfortable enough asking him these questions … or if he’s the one who now feels comfortable enough answering them.

I grab a basket filled with dried figs, and another filled with cashews and set them on the ground. There’s a roll of salami and another basket of Brazil nuts. I grab these final two item and lower myself to the floor, my back against a sack of rice.

“I’m not sitting on the ground,” Famine says, scornfully staring down at me.

“Then stay standing,” I reply. I mean, I don’t really fucking care.

He sets the bottle of wine he still holds on one of the nearby counters. Then, without warning, he scoops me up and begins carrying me away from the food, pausing only to snatch up the spiced rum from where it rested next to me.

“Hey!” I protest. “I was comfortable.”

“You’ll like this better,” he insists.

“Ah, yes, because you understand my desires so much better than I do.”

Famine gives me a look, one that’s heated as hell, and now I’m thinking about his mouth again … and those other parts of him I saw earlier today.

I barely register that we’ve crossed through the kitchen and entered the dining room.

The Reaper kicks out a chair and dumps me into it. A moment later, he sets the rum down on the table in front of me.

“For you to entertain yourself until I get back,” he says into my ear.

With that, he leaves the dining room. I can hear him rustling around in the pantry. When he returns, he brings the basket of cheese bread, the cassava chips, the salami, and the cashews.

I stare at him, brows lifted. “Are you actually … serving me?”

“I’m bringing us dinner,” he corrects me before leaving once more.

A minute passes, and then Famine returns with the wine and the last of the food, dropping the wheel of cheese unceremoniously onto the table, the knife I used now jutting out from the center of it.

“You are serving me,” I say incredulously.

He scrapes out the chair next to me and sits down, then grabs my seat and drags it over to him. He pulls me in so close that his thighs are bracketing mine in, and there’s nowhere else to look but at him.

This is … cozy.

The Reaper reaches across the table and plucks the bottle of rum from where it sits.

I’m watching him curiously, unsure of what the horseman is doing.

He meets my gaze, a sly smile on his lips, and then he grabs the bottom of my jaw.

“What are you—?”

The horseman lifts the spiced rum to my lips. “This, little flower, is me serving you.”

And then he feeds me the spirits.

I watch him as I drink, and maybe it’s my imagination, but his eyes seem to smolder.

I try not to stare, but the sight of him—from his tan skin to those cruel, sensual lips and his volatile gaze—is making my stomach feel light and fluttery. I don’t think I’ve ever been around someone who was so offputtingly beautiful.

Famine doesn’t remove the bottle from my lips for a long time, and I don’t stop drinking, the two of us watching each other.

Again, I feel that light, airy sensation in my stomach, the one that makes me feel like I can fly.

It’s the alcohol, I tell myself.

Not looking away from me, the horseman finally lowers the liquor from my lips, then brings it to his own.

Heat pools low in my belly.

The Reaper drinks and drinks … and drinks. He doesn’t stop until he’s drank the liquor dry.

He sets the empty bottle down onto the table with a heavy clink. “Would you like another demonstration?” he asks.

“Demonstration?” I echo, lost. I’m still hung up on the fact that Famine just drank all the rum.

His mouth curves up into a smile. “I’ll take that as a yes.”

Famine stands, and before I can call him back, he heads into the kitchen. He returns several minutes later with enough alcohol to kill a small army.

He sets his loot down on the table, knocking some of our food aside.

“You have a drinking problem,” I state.

Not that I blame him. If Elvita didn’t have a no-substance-abuse policy in place for her girls, I probably would’ve fallen into the same trap years ago.

“I kill humans by the thousands, and that’s your issue?” he says. “That I drink too much?”

He makes a fair point.

“I have a problem with the killing too.” Sort of.

In truth, I should have more of a problem with it, especially considering all the transgressions Famine has made against me and my loved ones. But I’ve come to a strange sort of peace with who and what the horseman is. I want him to stop, but I can’t stop him.

And if I’m being brutally honest, I don’t know if I should.

Humans can be awful. Maybe this is what we deserve.

Famine doesn’t stop drinking. He drinks and drinks and drinks. It’s enough booze to kill a man three times over. But the Reaper seems fine. Honestly, he doesn’t even appear all that fucked up.

While he works on the alcohol, I make it a personal mission to polish off most of the food in front of me. I drink a little too.

Amongst it all, we’ve taken to asking each other questions about anything and everything.

“How many men have you been with?” Famine asks, sipping on a glass of wine.

“Sexually?” I say, grabbing a handful of nuts. “I don’t know.” I pop one of the cashews in my mouth. “A lot.”

“How many women have you been with?” he follows up.

“Thirty-three,” I say without missing a beat.

His eyebrows go up. “You kept count?”

“They were more memorable bed partners,” I say. I eat another couple nuts. “How about you?” I ask. “How many people have you been with?”

Famine takes a long drink of his wine, his gaze growing distant. “I don’t know. I don’t remember the number.”

I give him a strange look. “Then why did you think I would remember?

“Because you’re a human, and you give a fuck about human things. I, on the other hand, do not.” With that, he polishes off his drink.

Famine leans forward to refill his glass. “Speaking of human things, what quaint little talents do you have?” he asks.

“I can fuck a man nearly blind,” I say helpfully.

He exhales.

Aw, did he think I’d given up on the uncomfortable sex jokes? Poor, naïve man.

I give the Reaper an innocent look. “I can demonstrate if you’d—”