“He shares one with some other men, I think …”

Behind Zara, a phobos rider heads towards us.

I glance back at my friend, my mind racing.

“Please,” she says, “if there’s any way you can help—

The phobos rider steps up to us, his eyes moving between me and Zara.

“The warlord wants to see you,” he says to me.

My focus is still on Zara. I squeeze her hand again and make a decision.

“I’ll help,” I say, nodding. I pull her in for a hug, and whisper into her ear. “I’ll meet you at your tent first thing tomorrow. Be ready—and bring whatever weapons you can with you.”

She nods as she pulls away. “Thank you,” she says softly, even as the phobos rider ushers me away.

I wave to Zara, then follow the rider. After a long stretch of silence, I take the man in. It’s the same soldier who handed me the sword the day I was to kill my attackers.

“What’s your name?” I ask. He has gentle eyes, and the few other times I’ve interacted with him, he hasn’t been as hostile as some of the other phobos riders.

“Hussain,” he says.

War’s tent looms ahead. The sight of it causes me to flush.

“I’m Miriam,” I say distractedly.

The horseman wants more. I can sense it.

My body thrums at the thought.

Hussain gives a small laugh. “I know who you are,” he says. He sounds kind and not at all like he despises me.

I’m not used to kindness here—to be honest, even back in Jerusalem, kindness was a rare thing. Life is a series of debts, loans, and obligations. Kindness is just something to muddy the waters.

The two of us get to the tent flaps. Hussain bows and steps away, leaving me to enter alone.

When I step inside War’s tent, everything feels different. In this enclosed space, nothing else besides me and the horseman exists. Not the death and grief and violence and horror of the outside world.

In here, with the smell of leather and perfumed oil in the air, I’m reminded of other, more intimate things.

Across the room the man himself lounges in a chair, a glass of wine dangling from his hand.

“Miriam.” His eyes heat when they meet mine, and I can practically see last night playing out in his mind.

He stands, setting his wine aside.

I take a deep breath and move to him, my hand trailing over the table as I pass it by. I glance idly at it, but then what I see catches my attention.

A map of Arish is spread out, various notes and arrows scribbled across it. This was the map War and his phobos riders were looking at yesterday when they were talking strategy. Despite all his supernatural abilities, the horseman still relies on us, the natives, to help him out.

War steps in close behind me.

“I still can’t believe there are people who are loyal to you,” I say, my fingers moving over the writing. Different hands have penned different notes.

“My riders aren’t loyal to me, Miriam.” His breath fans along my neck. “They are loyal to the art of breathing.”

My skin puckers at his nearness, and it takes several seconds to ignore my body’s response to him.

I turn from the map, the table jutting into my back. I have to crane my head to look up at War.

“Why are you doing this?” I ask.

“Doing what?” His eyes are fixed on my mouth.

“Fighting. Killing.”

War gives me a strange look, like I’m asking him why birds fly or hearts beat. Something that needs no answer.

“Why wouldn’t I be doing this? It’s why I’m here. It’s what I am.”

It’s what I am.

I keep thinking of him as a person, not as an entity, but I guess that’s what he is—war. He just happens to wear a human face.

“Could you stop fighting and raiding?” I ask.

“I won’t.”

“That’s not what I’m asking.”

War stares at me for a long time, his eyes narrowing. “Yes, wife, I suppose I could stop.”

If, of course, he wanted to. That makes this a little worse; I wasn’t positive until now that the horseman might have a choice in the matter.

I take a shuddering breath. “Do you have a bow and arrow?” I ask, changing the subject.

War studies me. “I do,” he says carefully.

“Can I use it tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow?” he repeats. “You mean for the battle?” The horseman narrows his eyes. “And here you had me convinced that you were trying to push for peace.”

I don’t respond to that. I’m afraid anything else I say might make War decide that keeping me out of the fight is the smarter option. It’s definitely the safer one.

But I doubt War’s mind even goes there. Not since I convinced him last time that his god would protect me.

He leans in close, resting his knuckles on the table, pinning me in. “Who, sweet wife of mine, do you plan on shooting with my bow and arrows?”

My jaw tenses. “Whoever crosses me.”

The corner of his lips curves up. “I knew you were going to be trouble.” His gaze drops to my lips. “But never mind that. That’s not why I called you here.”

My abs tighten. “I know why you called me here.”

“Good. Then no more talking.”

War doesn’t wait for me to respond. In an instant, his hand is cradling the back of my head and his mouth is on mine.

Embarrassingly, my knees weaken, and I grab onto the horseman’s forearm to keep myself upright.

War is a demanding kisser, his hands in my hair, his tongue insistent against my lips until I part my mouth and let him in.

He lifts me up and onto the table, setting me on its edge. “This morning, you left before we’d begun.”

Roughly, the horseman removes one of my boots, then the other.

“There’s no rush,” I say a bit breathlessly.

War’s hands go to my pants, unbuttoning them, and then pulling them over my hips and down my legs.

He gives a low laugh. “Oh, I don’t plan on rushing this.”

My panties come off next. The horseman kneels, pulling my hips towards him.

God, we’re doing this again.

“War—”

But then my words give way to gasps.

It’s a long time before the two of us do much more talking. Hours and hours later. By then, we’re back in War’s bed, my body draped along his.

He runs his fingers down my spine. “Your skin is softer than I imagined,” he says, his eyes following his hand. “So soft, my mortal bride.”

I prop my chin on his chest. This close to him, I’m struck again by how … off he is. He’s just a little too large, a little too ferocious, a little too captivating.

He doesn’t shine like I always imagined an angel might, and he’s obviously not pure and clean in the way that angels are depicted, but there’s something about him, something alien and other. Something decidedly not demonic, though I want to demonize him—or I used to want that anyway.

War sees me staring, and he smiles at me, his eyes amused. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think you enjoyed gazing at me just as much as I enjoy gazing at you.”

I take one of his hands and thread our fingers together.