“A single lifetime?” I repeat, confused by his wording.

It hits me a moment later: Famine is speaking of my lifetime—that’s the lifespan he’s referring to.

He takes in my expression, the corner of his mouth curving up. The Reaper crowds me, his lips coming to my ear. “I want to see this pretty skin get old.”

“You really want to be with me for my entire life?” The thought nearly steals my breath away. “What if you change your mind?”

“About you?” he asks, and now he looks amused. “You silly little flower—don’t you realize I’ve spent all this time trying to do just that? I have had eons of disdain for humans and years of torture to cultivate my hate. Yet here I am, by your side, and God Himself couldn’t rip me from you.

“I am not human, Ana. Old age and wilted beauty do not repulse me. They are part of the life cycle—they are a part of what makes me, me.”

I actually hadn’t even thought that far ahead, but the brutal honesty in his words eases my fear.

I take in those eerie green eyes. “And what if I change my mind?”

Famine rears back a little. “About me?” He raises his eyebrows, as though the thought is preposterous. “Then I suppose I’ll just have to threaten to kill off more towns. I imagine that will get you to stay.”

“Oh my God,” I say, “living with you is an awful idea.”

“Truly, it is,” he agrees.

He reels me in close and kisses the tip of my nose. “I suppose I could give you no reason to leave. That’s the less fun option, but I’m quite charming when I want to be.”

“I think you’re confusing my wonderful personality with your own,” I reply.

The horseman laughs at that. “Hmmm, maybe.”

Then he leans in and kisses me. It’s short and sweet and all too brief.

The horseman pulls away just enough to lean his head against mine.

“I’ve never felt so alive before, Ana,” he admits. “It’s wonderfully messy. I think I might like being human after all.”

Two nights later, I find myself on my back, Famine’s head between my thighs, my fingers wrapped up in his hair.

Since the two of us started living together, I’ve discovered something about Famine: he loves going down on me. Loves, loves, loves it. Which, I’ll be honest, I have mixed feelings about.

Obviously it feels good, but I’m also so self-conscious. It’s more than just feeling like my vagina has seen some shit, and I don’t want his mouth down there. It’s also that I am unused to selfishly receiving pleasure.

I think that might be part of the reason the Reaper likes this so much. I’m pretty sure he’s determined to replace my old conditioning with something new.

He pauses now, his face moving away from my core.

I’m panting, still staring up at the tree branches above our bed, when he shifts himself, draping his naked body over mine, his erection pressing against my thigh.

He stares down at me.

“Marry me,” he whispers.

I freeze, taking in his features. His eyes are bright and he looks eager and hopeful, his normal arrogance wiped clean from his expression.

“Please,” he adds.

My heart lurches.

I think this is him groveling.

My throat constricts, and my pulse is speeding up. “Why do you want to marry me?” I ask. I find that I’m actually afraid of his answer.

The Reaper’s lips quirk. “Little flower, don’t you know? I happen to enjoy it when you pee on my boots, and you sing songs off-key, and when I wake up to your atrocious morning breath—you know, you also fart in your sleep.”

Jesus.

“This is the worst proposal I have literally ever heard,” I say.

“I like it when you heckle me for saving small creatures, and I want to keep growing plants inside this house just so that you’ll give me shit for it. I happen to love you—all of you—and I always will. And I want you to always love me too.”

“You know I do,” I say quietly.

“Marry me,” he says again.

My heart is pounding way too loudly. “Marriage is for humans,” I say.

“I don’t give a damn. I want you to be mine under the eyes of all of these deceitful little assholes we live alongside.

“Please,” he repeats.

Still I hesitate.

“I’m afraid,” I admit. Afraid of loving something this much, of having it this good. I’m afraid of actually getting everything I’ve ever dreamed of because I’ve never gotten anything of substance before in my life.

“No one will ever hurt you again,” Famine vows, misinterpreting my words. “It’s us against the world, Ana. Marry me.”

A moment later he reaches under the mattress and pulls out a ring. Sitting right in the middle of it is a fat-ass diamond. The thing isn’t some modest stone, this thing is a goddamn boulder.

My gaze moves to his. “Who did you kill to get that thing?”

“Ana,” he says, his voice beseeching me to take this seriously.

This is too good to be true, but for once, I don’t let that stop me.

I smile up at Famine, my grin so wide it hurts my cheeks. I tuck a lock of his toffee-colored hair behind his ear, and then I lean up and kiss him.

“Yes,” I say against his lips. “Yes.”

Chapter 50

Famine

The days become weeks, the weeks become months. My scythe doesn’t rust and my muscles don’t grow soft, but I have gone to seed, my purpose set aside.

Just for a moment, I told myself when we settled in. Then I will get back to my task.

I knew I was telling myself a lie, but it was alright at the time. I wanted to give Ana a respite; she asks for so little.

But the truth is, I actually like this derelict little house of ours, and I’m curious just how overgrown I can make it before Ana actually loses it.

I expected the townspeople to plot against me, to rebel and fight for their lives. I was ready for that confrontation. But while I sense their deep and abiding fear, they have left me alone. I even get the impression that they respect me.

Ana, on the other hand, is openly adored. The same people who cast me fearful glances will happily pull her aside to chat about this or that. I would die before I admit it, but a part of me is proud of how beloved my fiancée is.

And now I’ve come to the ridiculous decision that maybe I’ll hold off killing them altogether—at least while Ana lives. Only then will I resume ravaging these lands.

My throat closes up at the thought of Ana one day dying.

What will happen when that day comes? Once she’s given me children—assuming, of course, that she ever wants them—and she grows old and passes. She’ll be gone, and … and … I will be forced to feel the earth take her body back into itself. I will feel it pick her apart and disperse that beloved skin and that beautiful hair and every other bit of her into the ground, food for some other, newer life. The world will go on, I will go on, even if she won’t.

I find I can’t breathe at the thought. It cuts too deep. Much, much too deep.

Why have I never considered this?

It’s not even her dying that causes me grief; it’s the lingering on without her. Lingering on and on.