I angle my pelvis and spread my legs, my meaning obvious.

“Don’t look away,” I say, staring up at him. I think that might be the key to this whole showing love business.

War doesn’t look away. Not as he grasps my hips, his fingers slick against my skin, and not as he fits the head of his cock at my entrance. His eyes are on mine as he thrusts inside me, hard enough to make me gasp.

We’ve stared plenty at each other when we’ve had sex, but tonight, it’s charged. Maybe it’s that we both have simply been missing each other, but just the sight and feel of him leaves me breathless. My heart is galloping in my chest, and it’s almost entirely from this thing between us.

I can so easily imagine it—loving War. Spending the rest of my life in these arms of his.

His cock throbs inside me, so thick that I can feel every twitch and pulse of it. Gently, he withdraws.

“My wife, you are everything I never knew I wanted,” he says, thrusting back into me.

Again that giddy flutter. Again that unease at my runaway emotions.

War leans in and kisses me, and everything about it is tender and so unlike my aggressive horseman.

“Forgive me,” he whispers against my lips. “Forgive me, Miriam.”

The warlord is achingly gentle, each stroke of his hips a plea. He’s making love to me, and he doesn’t even know it, so desperate is he for my forgiveness.

“Harder,” I say, because I’m suddenly in very real threat of feeling something I had no intention of feeling tonight. I was supposed to show him love, not the other way around.

And yet War shakes his head and keeps his thrusts soft, loving. His eyes are trained on mine, just as I instructed him. Only now, this whole experience has slipped out of my control. My heart is still hammering away, and my stomach is still doing funny things.

No, no, no, no, no.

But I’m pinned under that look, and I’m being lured in by those eyes, which look so kind, so sad right now.

His eyes are telling me what his words haven’t.

I love you.

The rest of his body is good at talking too. Every touch feels like worship, every thrust feels like a promise. This is all spinning wildly out of my control, and Goddamnit, his gaze is still pinned on me. Why did I ask him not to look away? I can’t escape what’s in his eyes. I’m melting to it, and I really, really don’t want to.

I can feel myself building … building … building …

“War—”

I come then, staring into his face, my lips parting in surprise as my orgasm crashes through me.

I see his own expression sharpen as his cock thickens inside me an instant later. And then he’s coming on the wings of my own climax, the two of us locked in this strange synchrony.

Our orgasms seem to last an eternity, the two of us staring at each other as we ride them out.

This is something new, something more than cut and dry sex. I can’t deny it, even if it startles me.

I made love to the horseman. It’s thrilling and terrifying all at once.

He slips out of me and pulls me to him, and for a brief moment, things feel comfortable between us once more.

But the comfortable moment starts to drift away when I realize that War is still staring at me, his gaze caught somewhere between want and wonder.

“I have never felt that way before,” he finally admits. “What are you doing to me, wife?”

I shake my head. I don’t know what either of us is doing.

“I cannot unknow this feeling,” War continues. “You were right. Love is far more than longing. It’s far more than anything I imagined.”

Chapter 48

The next morning I wake to extreme nausea.

I slip out of War’s embrace as slyly as I can and shove a shirt and pants on. There’s no time for bras, underwear and shoes. I scramble barefoot out of the tent.

Luckily, War’s tent is on the edge of camp, and I manage to make it to the outskirts before I sick myself, over and over.

Now that my zombie guards are gone, there’s no one to witness this, except for maybe one guard in the distance, but he’s too far away to get a good look at me.

Once I’m finished, I stagger a little ways away, then sit down hard on the ground, running my hands through my hair.

My mind is quiet for a long time—so quiet, in fact, that when a thought slips in, it feels very, very loud.

My period should’ve come by now.

I take several deep breaths, even as my heart begins to race.

I try to count off the weeks since I last bled, and I think I get as far back as six before I become unsure.

We’ve done a lot of moving. It’s hard to keep track of the days here … but no, I think that even assuming I over-counted, my period should still be here.

My unease now pools low in my gut.

I pinch my temples and breathe slowly in and out.

Don’t panic, don’t panic. There must be some simple explanation.

Maybe it’s the stress of all this traveling and the constant war. Maybe my body is in shock. Maybe that has simply delayed my period.

I almost relax. The explanation is nearly plausible.

Just as I’m about to stand up, another loud thought drifts in. I try to shut it out. I try to ignore it, but it’s right there, sitting in front of me, unwilling to be overlooked.

How many times has War been in you?

My hands are beginning to shake.

Fuck, I think I am starting to panic.

The nausea, the awful way food tastes and smells, the fatigue that’s plagued me, and the missed period—none of it is normal.

I cover my eyes with a shaky hand.

How many times has War been in you?

Dozens of times. He’s been in me dozens and dozens of times.

Dear God, I-I might be pregnant.

Stress could be an explanation for the fatigue and the late period, but not the food aversions. Not the nausea.

I could simply be sick. I really could, but …

Pregnancy is a more logical explanation.

I drop my hand from my eyes. For a long time I sit there in the foliage at the edge of camp, caught between horror and laughter.

This is what happens when people have sex, Miriam. Particularly sex with super virile god-men.

I put my head in my hands.

Pregnant. I might actually be pregnant. With War’s kid.

Holy balls.

The longer I think about it, the more certain I grow.

A horseman of the apocalypse knocked me up.

A disbelieving laugh slips out of me … then another little laugh slips out. I begin to laugh in earnest. I don’t know when exactly my laughter turns into sobs, only that eventually I can feel tears slipping between my fingers and my body is heaving.

I’ve been crying for maybe five minutes when I hear those familiar, powerful footfalls approach me from behind.

“Wife,” War says, his voice shocked. “What are you doing out here?”

I want to curl in on myself and die. I can’t even have a moment alone to process this?

“Miriam,” he says, coming around to my front, his voice thick with concern.

He kneels next to me and pulls my hands from my face. His gaze passes over me, like maybe I might be injured.

“What happened?” he says. “Did someone hurt you?”

Now my sobs morph back into laughter—sad laughter. My mournful eyes go to his. What am I supposed to say?