Am I really going to do this? Shit, I think I am. I’m too exhausted to pretend away the truth.

“I care about you, War,” I admit. “More than I want to—much more. It’s been hell, not seeing you.”

War stares at me for a long minute, and then he smiles so big it seems to reach every corner of his face. It’s still a ferocious look on him with his sharp canines—not even happiness makes him look less dangerous—but my heart skips a beat at that smile.

“I’ve missed you too, wife. More than I have words to express.”

I flash him a shy grin of my own. Right now, he’s making me forget that I feel like roadkill.

“I’m still angry with you,” I admit.

“And I’m furious that you tried to gut me—with my own sword no less.”

I think it’s that last part that really got to him.

He leans in. “But from my wife,” he adds, “I expected no less.” The horseman leans down then and kisses me.

I’m tired and sick, but there is nothing, nothing in the world that could stop me from kissing the shit out of this man. He is the one thing that still manages to taste good. His lips devour mine, and his arms pull me in close.

The two of us make out for a long, long time. Eventually, War breaks away to slide his hands under my body.

“What are you doing?” I ask.

He lifts me up. “I’m taking you home.”

Chapter 47

Now that War has kept his zombies at bay, I find I’m hungry. Very, very hungry. As soon as I see the platter of fruits, nuts, cheeses and breads laid out, I descend upon it. There’s a bowl of hummus nearby, and I’m not sure I’ve ever tasted anything so good in my life.

“You have an appetite?” War asks, coming to my side.

He looks upsettingly eager at the thought.

I guess it’s been more than just meat that I’ve been turning down lately.

“I don’t know, this hummus just tastes really good.”

Immediately, War strides out of the tent long enough for me to hear him barking out orders for more hummus.

War comes back inside. Grabbing a nearby pitcher, he fills up a glass of water.

“I’m going to bring a doctor over,” he says, handing the water to me.

“No,” I say too quickly, grabbing the warlord’s forearm. I accidentally smear a little hummus on it in the process. Whoops.

His brows come together as he stares at my grip on his arm.

His eyes rise to mine, and he looks suspicious. “What are you not telling me, wife?”

I shake my head. “I just don’t like doctors.”

Is that really it though? There’s been a ball of worry in the pit of my stomach. Something isn’t right, but I don’t really want to know what that something is. Not yet. This all might simply resolve itself.

“Sometimes, Miriam, we must endure things we do not enjoy. I’m sending for a doctor.”

“Please don’t, War,” I say. “It’s just the flu. Humans get it all the time. It’ll be gone in a few days.”

Just then, one of the horsemen’s men comes in with more hummus.

The rider sets the platter down on War’s table, then leaves.

“Your body is sick, wife. Don’t pretend otherwise. I should have been more vigilant with you because it’s clear you’re not eating as you should. And I know you’ve been more fatigued than usual lately.”

He’s noticed? I should probably be concerned that he’s been somehow keeping tabs on me, but instead I’m oddly touched that he’s been so aware of my existence.

I’m fucked in the head.

War continues. “And that’s not to mention the fact that only this morning you were physically sick.”

“I feel better now.” Sort of. I mean, I’m still nauseous, and the sweltering heat today is doing nothing to help it, but still, I feel well enough to eat and move around a little.

The horseman gives me a long-suffering look. “We may have been apart for some time, wife, but make no mistake, I won’t let you die. Not by the blade and not by illness either.”

I exhale. “A doctor won’t be able to do anything other than tell me to rest and drink lots of fluids.”

War doesn’t look nearly so convinced.

“Please, I promise you, I’m not dying,” I insist, drinking down the cup of water he gave me.

Behind me, the tent flaps rustle, and one of his phobos riders steps inside. “My Lord, we need to talk to you about”—the rider’s eyes flick to me, and he doesn’t quite manage to hide his surprise—“the next raid.”

“Not now,” War says, refilling my glass of water. He only has eyes for me, and it feels embarrassingly good to be the center of his world.

“Go,” I say. “I’m fine.”

War’s jaw tightens subtly. “You’re not.”

“I am,” I insist.

“And the undead?” he asks accusingly.

I get his unspoken meaning. He sent away all of his zombies. If he leaves, there will be no one to guard me.

I’m ashamed at how much my heart soars, hearing his concern. I thought he didn’t care. There were days when I was sure of it. Only now am I aware of how much that hurt me.

“You’re going to have to have faith that I’ll be alright,” I say. Even as I speak, I feel my nausea begin to rise once more.

“Faith is for humans,” War mutters, but after a moment, he nods to his phobos rider.

The horseman comes over to me and takes my face in his hands and kisses me long and hard. “We will continue to discuss your health when I return. Until then, arm yourself, wife.”

War releases my face, and then he leaves.

“So you’re back with him.” Zara’s voice drifts in from outside my tent.

I’m back inside my old quarters, gathering together my things. I left War’s tent shortly after he did so that I could pick up my belongings … and muster the courage to tell Zara I was moving back in with the horseman. That’s how easily War swayed me. One visit from him and a single request that I live with him again, and I capitulated to it all.

Apparently, I have shockingly weak willpower when it comes to him.

I make my way out of my tent and face Zara. “You heard my conversation with War?”

She nods, her hijab fluttering in the breeze. “I’m going to miss having you as a neighbor … even if your zombies stink.”

I laugh a little at that before my expression turns serious. I stare off behind her, where Mamoon is playing soccer with several other little boys.

This moment and everyone in it seems so fragile. I’m afraid of my own happiness; it’s usually the quiet before the storm.

“Do you love him?” Zara asks me, interrupting my thoughts.

My gaze snaps to her.

I open my mouth, but I don’t know what to say. There’s so much not to love about War.

Zara searches my features. Before I can scrape up some sort of answer, she says, “I gave him updates on you, you know.”

My eyes widen. “What? When?”

“While you two were apart,” she says. “He wanted to hear about how you were doing. If you were safe, happy, healthy.”