War never comes to visit.

There are no midnight drop-ins, there are no convincing arguments about why I should be sleeping with him. There’s no pissed off make-up sex.

He doesn’t even try to get close to my tent. The last time I saw him, he was riding back in from a raid with his phobos riders. His undead army came running in behind him, their bodies sick with decay. A few of them got blown up that day after a mishap with some explosives they’d run into in the city.

War’s eyes passed over mine, but there was no pause, no deep look, no spark of familiarity.

It’s as though our relationship never was.

The entire thing is crushing.

I’m still angry at War, but then I’ve always been angry at him. It’s him who’s decided to keep his distance. As crazy as it is, I actually resent that he’s still mad, even though I understand his anger—I tried to kill him, after all. But still, there were so many times when he crossed a line with me, I assumed it went both ways.

Then again, he’s made it clear that I’m not to die, while I made it clear that I wanted him dead. That’s pretty difficult to come back from.

As the weeks tick by, that numbness I felt in Mansoura begins taking over me. After seeing so many deaths, the faces start to blur together. And then there’s that terrible human quality of getting comfortable with a habit. We travel, we camp, we siege, we move on. Over and over again. I might hate my reality, but at some point the abnormal becomes horribly normalized.

Maybe this is how War feels—like this is simply normal. I thought for so long that he was incapable of feeling—that his mind didn’t work like that—but I think it does. He may be a heavenly creature, but he seems to love and fight and rage and grieve just like the rest of us humans do.

God, I am so tired. So unbelievably tired. The fatigue is a physical thing, and nothing I do seems to shake it. I go to bed drained, I wake up drained, and I drag myself through the day drained.

That’s the first sign that something isn’t right. The next is my loss of appetite.

Food no longer tastes right. First it was simply the smell of meat cooking. I’d have to stay away from the center of camp, where meals were served because the smell would make me gag. I chalked it up to seeing and smelling too many dead bodies, but now I’ve lost my appetite for coffee and alcohol as well.

None of it, however, alarms me. I’ve endured so much trauma and sadness, something like this was bound to happen.

It’s not until this morning that I truly worry.

I wake to a horrible churning in my stomach. I catch a whiff of my undead guards, and immediately, I scramble off my pallet, frantically shoving my way out of the tent.

I press the back of my hand to my mouth.

Going to be sick.

I don’t make it more than several meters before I retch. My guards stand idly by, and the smell of them—

I vomit again and again, that fetid scent caught in my nose.

Need the guards to move away.

Behind me, I hear another set of tent flaps thrown open.

“Miriam?” Zara’s voice is groggy. “Are you okay?”

I can’t answer, not until my stomach is completely empty. Even then I lean on my knees, breathing heavily.

“Stay away from me,” I rasp, turning around and heading back to my tent. “I’m sick.”

Zara doesn’t stay away. She comes over and brings me water and bread and fruit and fresh yogurt. I manage to choke down some of the bread and a bite or two of a dried apricot. The sight of the yogurt makes me gag, so she takes it away.

“Really, Zara, you need to stay away from me. I could get you sick—or Mamoon.”

“We’ll be fine. I do need to get back to my tent, but I’ll come back later,” she says. “I expect you to finish off all the water I’ve left for you.” She sounds like my mother. “And try to eat. You haven’t been …” Her brows furrow, and for the first time, I see that she’s worried about me.

I wave her off. “I’ll be fine.”

With a final, worried look at me, she slips out, and I’m left to drift back off to sleep.

I wake to the sound of heavy, familiar footfalls outside. They reach my tent, then stop.

I blink my eyes open just as the tent flaps are thrown back.

War stoops inside, and I have to suck in a breath at the sight of him. I’d forgotten how inhumanly handsome he is, with his olive skin and dark eyes, his black hair hanging wildly about his face.

He takes one look at me. “Miriam.”

At the sound of his voice and the concern that furrows his brows, I close my eyes. I thought I had lost whatever it was we had. But it’s still right there. He’s right there.

War kneels at my side. His hand goes to my hair, the tattoos on his knuckles glowing red, and he strokes my dark locks back just as he has so many nights before this.

I open my eyes again. “I missed you.”

That was not supposed to come out of my lips.

His face softens. War studies my features, like he’s trying to memorize them. He frowns, the concern back on his face. “Are you sick?” There’s a sharp, almost frantic look to his eyes.

“The dead—” I begin. Just the thought of them has me gagging. “The smell—can you get rid of them?”

I hear footfalls moving away from my tent, and I know without asking again that War sent off his zombies. It takes a little longer for their scent to fade away, but once it does, I relax a bit more.

War is in my tent. And he’s just as I remember—gold pieces in his hair, kohl ringing his eyes, vast expanses of muscle. Even his black on black attire is exactly how I remember it.

I try not to stare at his devastating face and his thick arms. I’m feeling too miserable to do anything more than eye-bang the crap out of him.

“Need my brother for this,” War comments, still studying my face.

“What?” I ask, alarmed.

“If you’re sick,” he says, “Pestilence would be able to help.”

I don’t want any of his brothers anywhere near me. But the way War says it, it’s more a wish than anything else. Wherever his brother is, he’s not going to be coming to my aid.

“I’m fine,” I say.

“You’re not,” War insists. “You look far too pale and tired—and skinny. Have you not been eating?” Worry pinches the edges of War’s eyes, and he still has a wild edge to his features.

“Why do you care?” I ask him, not meanly, just curious. He hasn’t shown any interest in so long.

“Wife, I have always cared.”

That title! I didn’t realize how badly I missed hearing it until now.

“It’s you,” War continues, “who never cared.” There’s an edge of bitterness to his voice.

He thinks I was the one staying away? I mean I was, but only because he seemed to have written me off completely. My wounded ego can only take so much bruising.

“If only.” I look away from him.

At my side, War stills. He takes my chin and turns my face, forcing me to stare him in the eye. “What do you mean by that?” he demands.

“Isn’t it obvious?” I say miserably, half aware that Zara can probably hear every single word. Oh well.

“Speak plainly, Miriam,” War says, his features sharp and his gaze intense, hopeful.