“Fuck, flower—” Famine’s grip tightens in my hair, and then he’s thrusting against me as he begins to orgasm.

I taste him then, his cum filling my mouth for a moment before slipping down my throat. Over and over he pistons against me, and I wring him dry, working him until he’s gently prying me away.

“Have mercy,” he says, his hazy eyes meeting mine. His cheeks are flushed and he looks thoroughly fucked.

Beneath me, his muscles now relax.

I flash him a very wicked, very proud smile. He actually begged me for mercy. I definitely want to hear those words again.

And I want to make him feel good all over again, just for the sake of seeing his pleasure.

I push aside that particular thought.

He hauls me up to him, then breathes in my ear, “Ho-ly shit.”

“And to think you could’ve been having this the entire time,” I say tartly.

There’s a long pause, then Famine lets out a surprised laugh. “Little flower, you are, perhaps, even more devious than I am.”

His eyes spark with delight. He runs his hand over my back, seeming to enjoy the feel of my skin. But then his touch stops. It moves down a little, then up.

I stiffen against him, aware of what he’s now noticing for the first time.

“Ana.”

My gaze meets his.

“What are these?” Famine asks, running his fingers over the lines that crisscross my back.

He’s seen me naked plenty of times, yet he’s never gotten a good look at my back.

“Scars.”

“Scars,” he repeats calmly. Too calmly. “From what?”

I’ve had this conversation more times than I’d like. Most men, bless their hearts, give an honest attempt at pillow talk, even when they’re paying for my services. So they ask questions.

“The horse whip my aunt was particularly fond of.”

“This is what your aunt did to you?” he says, aghast.

I nod.

He moves me a little so that he can peer at the scars. Whatever he sees makes him sit up further.

I begin to move myself, but he holds me in place, inspecting my back.

“There are dozens of welts,” he says, horrified.

I didn’t think he had it in him to be disturbed by something like this. He inflicts worse on people all the time.

“I’m aware.” I remember all too clearly the sharp, lacerating burn as my skin split open, and the stiff, lingering pain that lasted for days and days afterwards as the injuries healed.

“Why would she hit you?” he says. Famine doesn’t usually show his anger, but I hear it in his voice now.

I lift a shoulder. “It varied. Sometimes it was because I’d forget to do my chores. Sometimes it was because I was too slow—or too lazy. Sometimes I’d say something she didn’t like, and sometimes it was just a look I’d give her.”

“A look,” Famine repeats. He’s staring at me like he can’t fathom it. “And you still lived with her?”

“I was a child,” I say a little defensively. “I had nowhere else to go.”

“Anywhere else would’ve been better.”

I give him a disparaging look. “Spoken like a man who has never been powerless.”

“I have been powerless.”

My breath catches. Of course. I don’t know how I forgot.

He traces my scars some more. “And you wonder why I despise your kind.”

My throat works. What he’s saying is terrible, but I don’t feel his hatred; right now I feel his empathy. If there was one person who understood my pain, it would be him.

“I shouldn’t tell you this,” I admit, “but sometimes … sometimes—God this is perversely fucked up—sometimes I’m actually grateful you and the other horsemen are killing us off.”

Famine goes still, those unnerving green eyes tracking me.

Maybe I shouldn’t have said anything. I don’t really want to make him believe that he’s doing some good deed by wiping us all out.

I rub my temples, feeling like I need to explain myself. “When I think of all that’s been done to me and others like me, when I think of every mean act I’ve seen—acts done without remorse or a second’s thought—sometimes it feels like there’s something fundamentally wrong with human nature. I don’t understand why we can be so hateful to one another.”

I feel shame as I speak, but then—in the wake of my words—lightness, like I’ve unburdened myself.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Famine asks.

“That I sometimes hate people just as much as you do?” I say. “Was I supposed to? Would it have changed anything?”

The look he gives me says plainly that, yes, it would’ve.

There’s a long pause. Finally, the Reaper says, “If you feel this way, then why do you get upset when I kill?”

A hollow laugh slips out. “I don’t always hate humanity. And even people who do bad things aren’t always bad.”

Famine gives me an incredulous look. “Like your aunt and the woman who was going to give you to me.”

“Elvita,” I say.

“Fuck her and her name too,” Famine says. “You can’t give someone away like they’re a sack of flour or a candlestick. You are a person.”

Does the horseman realize he just basically said that humans have some inherent value? That’s new …

“And you can’t routinely beat someone and pretend to still love them,” he continues.

“You don’t know that,” I say, my voice coming out as a whisper because he touched on something real and deep. “It’s not that black and white.”

“Are you serious?” he says, disbelieving. “We’re talking about the people who hurt you, Ana. How can you come to their defense?” Famine looks outraged on my behalf.

“They gave me a home when no one else would,” I argue.

“I would’ve,” he says.

“Am I supposed to regret not heading off into the sunset with the man who murdered my entire town?”

“They were scum who abused a kid—and they abused me.”

The moment the words are out of his mouth, his jaw clenches and unclenches.

I open my mouth to argue with him some more when he stands, scooping me up in the process. “Enough of this,” he says, carrying me towards the wing of the estate where his rooms are. “I want to taste that pussy of yours again, and damn you, but the concessions I would make just to get your cunning mouth back on my dick.”

Concessions? Now that’s piqued my interest. Maybe I’ll still get my moment to save humanity after all.

A blowjob to end all bloodshed. I really do like the ring of that.

Chapter 37

Late the next morning, I wake up in a bed that’s not my own. Which, really, isn’t all that strange, now that I have some time to process where I am.

Famine’s room. Heitor’s house.

I sit up, only to realize that my lips are swollen and my clothes are missing, my hair is a fucking mess, and my head—

Fuck me—I haven’t had a headache this bad in who knows how long.

A moment later, the nausea surfaces.