I don’t know if I can do this.

I’ve spent a long time working on not falling in love. I don’t want that to end now—and with the Reaper no less. Because heartbreak will follow—it always does—and if gentle Martim was able to break my heart into a thousand pieces, what would terrible, merciless Famine do to it?

“Well?” the horseman says, looking at me for some sort of reaction.

Mechanically I move to the sheet and sit down.

“Thank you for this.” My voice sounds wooden.

Famine scrutinizes me. “I will figure it out, you know.”

I give him a questioning look.

“What’s been on your mind,” he explains.

My stomach bottoms out.

Oh right.

“Please don’t,” I say softly.

All he does is smile.

I’m doomed.

Chapter 39

Rain patters against the roof, and I can hear the steady drip of it from several leaks in the roof.

I sit on the blanket Famine laid out for me while the Reaper rummages around the house. My stomach is full from eating the food the horseman packed for me. Now that it’s dark, I should be tired.

Instead my senses buzz. Night has always been the time I worked, so I’m used to feeling awake when most people are settling in for the evening. However, I’m not used to my heart leaping and my skin pricking with awareness at the horseman’s every word and gesture.

Right now I can hear him strike a match. There’s a hiss and a burst of light. A minute later he strides over to where I sit, carrying the clay oil lamp I saw earlier, a lit wick peeking out of it. He lowers himself to the ground next to the blanket, setting the lamp down beside him.

I pat the blanket. “You can sit here you know.”

“That’s your bed,” the Reaper says.

Calling this blanket a bed is giving it far too much credit, but that’s cute of him anyway.

“I’m used to sharing,” I reply.

In the lamplight, our eyes meet, and last night silently plays itself out in our minds. Famine still hasn’t moved.

“Don’t make this weird,” I say. “Nothing’s changed between us.”

The horseman gives me a sharp look, one that makes my stomach dip, but he does move onto the blanket, sitting across from me.

Seconds pass and that gravity is still in his gaze, like he is swimming in deep, deep water and he wants to drag me under with him.

I turn my attention to the house around us, listening to the steady drip of rain.

“Sleepovers in derelict buildings are kind of our thing,” I say, softly.

“Mmm.”

I drop my gaze back to Famine, and damnit, he’s still looking at me like that.

“Stop it,” I whisper.

“Stop what?” he says, not looking away from me.

Stop making me feel lighter than air and heavier than iron. Stop sucking me under.

“Nothing’s changed between us,” I insist. I don’t know how I manage to say that lie in a normal voice.

The Reaper smiles at me then, his expression wry, like I’m the naïve one and he’s the one with the worldly experience.

I glance away, unable to hold his gaze. I’m desperate for a distraction. Anything that might make me forget I’m incurably attracted to him.

My eyes land on the oil lamp. It’s nothing more than a shallow bowl with a little pinched lip for the wick. That’s all the light we have to talk by tonight.

“Can I ask you something?” I say.

Rather than responding, the Reaper waits for me to continue.

“Why did everything fail?”

I can tell that’s not the question he was expecting. He was expecting a question about us, but hell no am I going to ask him something that will force me to confront my feelings for him.

“You mean human technology?” he asks.

I nod.

There are junkyards full of rusted automobiles and appliances and televisions and computers and those cute little cellphones people used to carry. There are landfills full of other things too—things that I don’t even have proper names for, things that once worked but no longer do. I’m too young to have seen cars drive and planes fly and machines wash clothes and chill food. It all sounds like witchcraft.

Maybe that’s why it all failed—I don’t think God is a big fan of witchcraft.

“It all failed because humans got carried away,” the horseman replies. “You were all naughty children who didn’t listen when God told you in His quiet way to stop,” Famine says idly. “So now He’s being loud about it.”

“Is that why is God punishing us?” I ask. “Because we were too … innovative?” I’ve heard of a lot of sins; I didn’t realize curiosity was one of them.

“God isn’t punishing you,” Famine replies smoothly. “I am. God is merely balancing the scales—so to speak.”

“Because we invented too many things?” I ask.

“Because the world fell out of balance,” he says. “And humans are to blame for that.”

There’s that word again—balance. The Reaper has mentioned it a couple of times now. Immediately, my eyes move to the kitchen, where I last caught a glimpse of his scales. He brought them in with the rest of our things, though he didn’t properly unpack them.

“There are some good things about humans,” Famine adds. “If there weren’t, this would’ve happened long ago.”

I take that in, trying to process the fact that the horseman is admitting that people have some goodness to them.

I don’t say anything, caught between shock and a fragile sort of hope that maybe, maybe were aren’t totally and completely screwed.

Famine’s eyes move to mine again, and that look is back. He leans forward and reaches out, his fingers skimming my cheeks.

At his touch, I still.

“You said everything was going to go back to the way it was before,” I accuse, my voice a whisper.

“I lied.” There’s no remorse in his tone. “I cannot forget how you saved me and all you have admitted to me since. And I cannot forget how your skin felt against mine and the look in your eyes when I touched you. But most of all, Ana, I cannot ignore the way you draw me in, again and again.”

My heart starts to pound loudly, so loudly I’m sure he can hear it. These are things lovers—true lovers—say to each other, and I can’t bear it. It’s my weakness. Ask any girl who’s known too little love in her life and she’ll tell you—this is how you ensnare us.

“Don’t tell me you haven’t been reconsidering it yourself?” Famine says.

I glance away, picking at a loose thread on the blanket.

“Ana.”

Reluctantly, my eyes return to his, and he sees it. I know he does.

His eyes widen, then after a moment, he flashes me a triumphant grin. “You have.” He stares at me a little longer, and I hear him inhale a breath. “That’s what you’ve been keeping from me all day,” he says, like he’s finally figured it out.

But I don’t think he has. I think if Famine knew the depth of what I’m feeling right now, he wouldn’t be so pleased.

He catches my chin and pulls my face closer, leaning in until only a few short centimeters separate our lips. “Little flower, I’m happy to give you an encore of last night,” he says, his voice low. I can hear his own desire, and it is not helping anything at this point.