I rub my neck, my throat raw. “I wasn’t trying to,” I say hoarsely, sitting up.

“Lies!” he bellows. “I saw you throw yourself from the horse.”

“I needed to puke.” The words come out scratchy. “That’s all.” I clear my throat, focusing on him. “Why are you so concerned anyway?” I ask, rising to stand on shaky legs. I squint at him. “You’ve made it plenty clear today you don’t care much about me.”

Those last two lines were supposed to stay firmly inside my mouth.

The horseman glares at me, his brows furrowed. “Suffering is—”

My shoulders slump. “For the living. Yeah, yeah, I know.”

He grabs my chin, forcing me to look at him. His eyes search mine, and they’re raging with anger.

All at once, he jerks my face forward and kisses me.

Chapter 24

It’s harsh. Angry. Almost violent. I suppose this is the only kind of kiss that’s fitting for us.

And then it hits me that Pestilence is kissing me, his lips are crashing against mine, his touch feverish as he crushes me to him.

Unwittingly, I grab the horseman’s forearms with my icy hands, using him to stabilize me.

He’s kissing me.

I don’t have the breath or the will left in me to tell him please again, to force his hand and stop this from happening.

Don’t want it to stop.

After the first few seconds pass, it’s clear Pestilence doesn’t know what lips are supposed to do in a kiss. All his (hateful) enthusiasm is there, but it’s being held up by the rigid set of his mouth.

It’s me who ends up leading the way, my lips gliding over his. He follows my movements, all of his anger making his mouth almost bruising in its ferocity.

It feels like I’m drowning all over again, the taste and touch of him sucking me under. Everything is harsh—the chill of my skin, the achy burn of my throat, the savage brush of his lips against mine. Saltwater drips down our faces, mingling with our kiss.

I don’t know how long the two of us are locked together like that before I realize that I’m wet and freezing and I just retched (to be fair, he doesn’t seem to mind). And oh yeah, I’m kissing Pestilence.

Still, it takes a surprising amount of willpower to tear myself away. I stumble back, and I pretend that it’s just the sand that has me weak in the knees.

Pestilence is breathing hard, his chest rising and falling laboriously. He takes a step forward, his eyes locked on my mouth.

Wants to pick up where we left off.

At the last second, he seems to come to himself. He scowls, his icy blue eyes meeting mine. “You will not try to kill yourself again.”

“I wasn’t trying—”

“Do not defy me, Sara!” he bellows. Then, softer, “I won’t let you die.”

Pointless to explain myself. Pestilence is willing to believe that I tried to poison him with alcohol, but he won’t connect the very obvious dots that I poisoned myself with the stuff.

“Fine,” I say, my voice twisting over the words. “It won’t happen again.”

He nods, his eyes going back to my lips. “Good—good.”

Try number two to leave the island goes better than the first one. This, of course, is after we make our way back to the house and I warm myself up on another hot bath and another set of dry clothes—this all on Pestilence’s insistence.

It comes as a particularly unpleasant shock to me that the horseman cares about my well-being. I mean, I’ve known since he took me captive that he wants me alive, but this feels … different. And I’m not sure I like it.

I trickle my fingers over my lips. I can still feel the press of his mouth against mine, and though the two of us haven’t talked about What Went Down, it’s right there between us, lingering like an unwanted guest.

After we leave the beach house, we resume our travels along the water. Pestilence makes a big deal about keeping one arm firmly locked around my midsection. It’s as hilarious as it is ridiculous.

If I wanted to kill myself “again,” I’d hardly try the same failed tactic.

The wind tears at us, and even wearing layers of warm clothes, the chill somehow manages to wriggle its way in. It’s made all the worse by the fact that my torso is no longer cloaked in layers of bandages, my back injury healed enough for me to forgo them. I hadn’t realized until now that the gauze had somewhat insulated me.

I shiver, the action causing Pestilence to pull me closer.

“You will tell me if you get too cold,” he orders, his breath warming one of my ears.

I give him a thumbs up. “Sure thing.” Not going to fight him on that one.

We hug the coastline as we head south, staying far enough away from land to avoid direct contact with people, but close enough to make out the details of the shoreline to our left. Every so often we see a sailboat or a canoe, but even those are a ways off.

It’s late afternoon by the time the clouds part and the sun shines down on us. It heats my hair and reflects off the water, and before long my scalp and face feel tight. I wouldn’t be surprised if, by nightfall, my skin is a particularly unflattering shade of red. That’s not the only thing bothering me.

I shift uncomfortably on Trixie Skillz.

“Hey Pestilence,” I say, “I need to use the shitter.”

His hand squeezes my hip. “Human, you are speaking in tongues.”

“The latrine,” I clarify, my voice mocking.

“Ah.” He totally misses the fact that I’m making fun of him.

He tugs on the reins, turning his horse towards land. Twenty minutes later, the rippling water beneath Trixie’s hooves is replaced with solid ground. I breathe a little sigh of relief to be back on land.

Around us, evergreens stretch as far as the eye can see. Wherever we are, there’s not a hint of human life to be found.

I’m just accepting the fact that I’m going to have to pee in the woods when we find a paved road, and then, a short while later, an outpost.

The woman manning it takes one look at us and bolts, nearly tripping over herself trying to get on her bike.

I find a sad excuse for a bathroom behind the building and use it. When I come back out, Pestilence is strapping blankets and what looks like tent poles to the back of Trixie’s saddle.

“What are you doing?” I ask, eyeing his horse. Right now, his steed looks less like the unearthly driving force behind the Pestilence’s plague and more like a packhorse.

“Collecting supplies.”

I glance at the outpost. This one has all sorts of survival gear, from water jugs to homemade sunscreen, a fire-starting kit to dehydrated food.

Alright. “Why?”

“In case we don’t find shelter,” he says, tightening one of the saddle’s straps.

That’s never been a problem before, but then again, up until today we were traveling along the highway. Right now, we’re essentially off the grid.

I glance at the horizon, where thick, dark clouds are chasing down the sun.

Really not a good day for camping.

Pestilence heads back into the outpost, making his way to the hunting section of the store. An entire wall is dedicated to various types of guns and ammo.

He strides right up to them. Calmly, he lifts a rifle from the wall, then stares down at it, one hand wrapped around the barrel, the other near its wooden base.