People are still cleaning the room around us, but now many of them stiffen a little.

I suppress a shudder. “Thank you, no,” I say.

I step into Famine’s space. “You mentioned earlier that you were trying something new,” I say. I gesture to the house around us. “How is this new?”

Famine often asks people for offerings and places to stay. To me, this is the same gimmick he’s always pulled.

The horseman pulls me into him. “You’ll see,” he whispers against my ear.

There’s a chair nearby. Famine snags it, dragging it over. He sits down in it, pulling me down along with him.

“Let me go, Famine,” I say, as he props me on his lap.

“No,” he says casually, reaching out to play with one of my curls.

“I’m serious.” This situation—Famine sitting in a chair like some sort of king—has always preceded terrible things. I don’t want to be here to watch.

“As am I,” he says.

Anxiety builds in my veins.

He runs a finger down my arm. “Relax,” he breathes against my ear.

But I can’t relax.

“What are you going to do to them?” I ask, my voice low so that the people around us can’t hear.

“I already told you, little flower: I’m trying something new.”

I peer at him for several seconds before realization hits me.

“You’re not going to kill them?” I breathe, my eyes widening. It’s too good to hope for.

The Reaper lifts a finger and traces the scab running across my neck, frowning at the sight of it. “Of course I’m going to kill them.” He doesn’t bother lowering his voice, and the people in the room with us flash him wide-eyed looks. “I just won’t do it yet.”

My gaze searches his. “Why?”

“Strange creature—would you like me to kill them straight away?”

“Jesus, Famine. No.” I’m not even sure he’s joking. “I just … I’m curious.” After all, the Reaper has never done anything like this before, and I want to know why.

He stares at me for a long time. I can practically see the scarred layers of himself melting away as he takes me in.

“You’ve never asked me to change,” Famine finally admits. “Or to be something I’m not. You never needed me to be human to accept me.”

I mean, I wasn’t super accepting when I tried to stab him. And I don’t think I’ve ever accepted his cruelty. But he is technically right—I never actually thought to change his behavior. I never realized that changing him was an option. That would be like him trying to remove the human out of me—utterly impossible.

“I don’t understand where you’re going with this …” I say, still staring at him skeptically.

“I accept you as you are, Ana, with your lewd comments—”

“You like those,” I interrupt.

“—and your insatiable curiosity, and your human tricks—”

“You like those too.”

“—and your compassion,” he finishes. “Especially your compassion, even in the face of cruelty.

“This is my pledge to you, little flower,” he continues, “I will be at your side until my dying day, and I will hold off on the killing—for now.”

Chapter 47

I stare at him for a long time.

“I don’t believe you,” I finally say.

He laughs. “You’re welcome.”

Holy shit, he is telling the truth.

Which means … this is a legitimate vow. One that comes as close to undying love as it gets.

I will be at your side until my dying day.

I try not to swoon. Ana da Silva does not swoon, especially not over scary men. But I come close to it. I come damn close.

He wants to be with me. And bonus—he’s really not going to kill. And who knows how long that will last, but he’s going to try. He’s never tried before.

Wait a second.

I glance around at the house around us with new eyes.

I’m trying something new, he’d said. Could that actually mean … ?

“Is this house for us to keep?” I say, not daring to believe it.

Famine nods.

I can’t seem to get enough air in my lungs.

I focus on him again. “I want to be alone with you.”

The Reaper is going to get laid. Right here. Right now.

Not looking away from me he says, “Everyone out.”

Within a matter of minutes, the house is empty.

As soon as the last person’s gone, I stand and pull off my soiled dress, then kick off my socks and shoes.

The horseman watches me, his eyes gleaming.

Once I’m fully naked, I nod to Famine.

“Now it’s your turn,” I say.

“To get naked?” he says, raising an eyebrow. “Whatever for?”

Oh my God.

I give him a look. “Do I really need to—?”

“I’m kidding,” the horseman says, and it’s unnerving how much he sounds like me.

He stands and begins removing his bronze armor. Famine is slower to get naked, his gaze drinking in my breasts … then my waist, then my hips, then legs, then back up, his eyes lingering on my pussy as his fingers undo his armor.

“Had I known this would earn me some eager sex, I might’ve given up my ways much, much sooner.”

I guffaw at that. We both know the Reaper fought his physical urges to the bitter end.

It only takes him a little longer to pull off the rest of his clothing. In the light of day, I see every exposed centimeter of him. I’m used to his nudity, but it still takes my breath away.

Famine’s wide shoulders give way to his rounded pecs and tapered waist. His abs are a thing of glory, but even they can’t hold my attention for long.

My gaze moves to his erection.

Cocks are kind of my thing. I’ve seen hundreds of them—fat ones, skinny ones, long ones, short ones. I’ve seen penises so small that I could barely fit two fingers around them and penises so large they never fully fit all the way inside me, no matter the position. There were dicks that swung to one side and some that grew to twice their normal length; there were some that were bulbous and fleshy and some that were utterly outshined by their owner’s enormous balls. And there was everything in between.

Famine’s cock is, like the rest of him, annoyingly faultless—thick enough and long enough to make a girl feel thoroughly loved, but not overly endowed to make her regret it the next morning. His cock even slopes with just enough arch to hit a woman’s G-spot.

As I stare at him, a grin spreads across my face.

This might be the most blasphemous thing I’ve ever thought, but God clearly made this man for fucking. Sure, killing too, but I’m just saying—this dick has enough bells and whistles to play itself a song.

“That look of yours always makes me nervous,” Famine says, reaching out and pulling me against him. He traces my lips, his pretty cock trapped against my belly.

“Say it again,” I say.

Famine lifts me up once more, forcing my legs to wrap around him again. “That look of yours—”

“Not that,” I laugh. “That you love me.”