“Let’s leave my eyes out of this,” he says, bringing his now full glass of wine to his lips. “I already lost both hands in the last day. I’d hate for my eyes to go too.”

Despite his words, I swear he looks half intrigued.

Personally, I’m far more than half intrigued.

“So, besides blinding men,” he says, “what else do you like to do? Read? Sing? Dance? Wait, forget about that last one. I know you can’t dance for shit.”

It’s such a rude goddamn thing to say, but a laugh slips out anyway. I’ve sort of developed a soft spot for Famine’s asshole-ish personality.

“Fuck you,” I respond good-naturedly.

“Mmmm …” Again, he gives me a speculative look, like he’s taking my words literally.

The thought heats my skin.

“I can bang out a few keys on the piano,” I say carefully, answering his earlier question, “and I can carry a tune if it’s simple enough.”

But the horseman doesn’t look like he’s listening, and now my mind is back on how it would feel to have this unnatural thing on me and in me.

My thoughts are interrupted as, from the ether, Famine’s scythe and scales form right before my eyes, the two items solidifying right in the middle of our makeshift feast, the scales knocking over an empty bottle.

I start at the sight of them. “Does that … ?”

“Usually happen?” Famine says. “If I’m away from them long enough, it does.”

“How long is long enough?” I ask.

The Reaper reaches out and lifts the scythe from the table. “I used to try to figure that very thing out when I was held captive.”

At the word captive, I glance sharply at him. This is the one thing that we haven’t discussed tonight. Famine’s captivity. And judging by the sound of his voice, it’s for good reason. Just his tone alone gives me goosebumps.

The horseman lays the scythe across his lap. “I’d wake on a pike, or in—”

“A pike?” I say, aghast.

His green gaze cuts to mine, and I can almost see his pain and the sharp bite of old anger. “If I was lucky, I’d simply be tied to it. If I was unlucky …” His gaze grows distant, and I steel myself for whatever he’s about to say. “If I was unlucky I’d be nailed to it or impaled on it.”

Impaled … ?

The food in my stomach is suddenly not sitting so well.

He lays the scythe lays across his lap, his fingers moving over the markings etched onto it.

“But it was those unlucky times when my few possessions would manifest. They’d take them away of course—not that it mattered. They kept me too injured and weak to use them or any of my powers.”

My mind is conjuring up images—awful images—and it physically hurts me to imagine Famine like this. I cannot fathom just how hurt he would have to be to be unable to use his powers.

“They broke my spirit too,” he admits quietly, staring at the wine in his glass. As though the reminder is too painful to bear sober, he brings the drink to his lips and swallows it all down in three long gulps.

I reach over and squeeze the horseman’s leg. “I’m so sorry. Truly.” I’m not a violent person, but hearing his words and seeing his expression is drawing out all my protective instincts.

He was sent here to kill humans off—presumably because we were a little too wicked for God’s liking—and we somehow managed to prove to Famine that we were even worse than the reputation that preceded us.

The horseman covers my hand with his and gives it a squeeze. At the touch, my heart begins to race in a way that has nothing to do with fear or anxiety.

“How did you escape them?” I ask.

I never heard this part of the story.

“One of the men let down his guard and fell asleep as I was healing. I was able to gather just enough strength to dispatch him and the others keeping guard. Then I freed myself and … you know the rest.”

He reaches out and picks up a bottle of cachaça. Uncapping it, he takes a swig of the pale liquor.

I stare at him, taking in all of his anger and all of his pain. That’s mostly what he’s made from. But amongst it all, I’ve seen glimpses of something softer, kinder, something that grew in spite of the cruelties he endured and his own innate drive to kill us off.

Leaning forward, I grasp Famine’s scythe with both hands, lifting it off of his lap.

The horseman watches me intently, but he doesn’t bother stopping me. I set it aside and then I reach for the bottle of cachaça in his hand.

“Taking all my things, are we?” he asks, though he lets me remove the liquor from his grasp.

I bring the bottle to my lips and take a long drink of it. This is, perhaps, more liquor than I’ve ever drank in one night.

I lower the bottle, glancing down at it. “Did you mean what you said about alcohol?” I ask, remembering what he told me all that time ago.

“What did I say?”

My eyes flick to his. “That a little alcohol washes away the memory of all sorts of sins?”

Famine cracks a smile, though there’s no humor in it. “Would I drink this deeply if I felt otherwise?”

I try not to examine that too much. That maybe Famine really does have moments of regret and self-hatred, same as me.

Very deliberately, I set the cachaça down on the table, and I lean in close to Famine, my knees brushing against his inner thighs. The alcohol is making me brave.

“Then maybe it will wash away the memory of this sin.”

With that, I kiss him.

Chapter 35

His lips are soft like satin. I don’t remember that from the last time I kissed him.

And like the last time I kissed him, Famine doesn’t immediately react. I think he must be shocked. The only reason the kiss continues at all is because I’ve nearly drunk my weight in booze, and my self-confidence is at an all-time high.

But then the Reaper’s lips do begin to move, and suddenly he’s returning the kiss with a passion that I’m struggling to match. He reaches out, catching me by the waist. With a deft yank he pulls me onto his lap.

I rearrange myself so that I end up straddling him. The horseman holds me tight against his body, his hands moving to my hips. All the while his lips devour mine.

I’m shocked to feel that beneath me, he’s hard. I’d seen his heated looks and I’d read the interest in his body language, but this is actual proof that Famine feels desire—and for me of all people.

My hands slide to his cheeks, cradling his face. It’s frightening how in this moment I can just sideline every evil deed he’s done. All because at the very root of him, there’s something that calls to me. Maybe it’s that kernel of kindness I’ve glimpsed. Maybe it’s his awfulness or his vulnerability. Maybe it’s nothing at all, and I’ve simply deluded myself that we’re alike.

Famine’s palms skim up my sides, his fingers pressing into the flesh of my back. All while his mouth works mine. He parts my lips, and I have a moment of surprise that he actually knows how to kiss—and how to kiss well.

How many women has the horseman been with?

Famine pulls away, his breathing ragged.

Why? His eyes seem to ask. Why did you kiss me?