My entire body tightens at the sight of the gun in his hands. I don’t know what exactly it is that I feel. Surely it’s not fear? Pestilence doesn’t need a weapon to kill. He’s plenty lethal as is. Maybe it’s simply the alien way he’s looking at the thing in his hands, his expression unreadable.

His grip on the rifle tightens, his arm muscles flexing, and then the metal groans as he bends the barrel of it, folding the gun nearly in half.

I stare dumbly at him, my mind taking a ridiculously long time to come to terms with the fact that the horseman is strong enough to manipulate metal.

He drops the rifle to the ground, the thing utterly forgotten as he reaches for another. Pestilence doesn’t stop until he’s destroyed every last one of the guns the outpost was selling—hell, he even manages to find the one hidden beneath the counter before ruining that one too. There’s a nice pile of them in the back.

Owner’s going to lose their shit when they see that someone folded their guns in half.

Once Pestilence is done, he leaves the store just as serenely as he entered it. “Ready to ride out?” he asks as he passes me.

I take one last look at the ruined weapons littering the store. “Uh … sure.”

It’s not until we’re far away from the outpost, Trixie weaving us through a dense coastal forest, that either of us speak again.

“It’s my regret that though many things were destroyed by my arrival on earth, guns were not one of them.”

I raise my eyebrows at his words.

“I’m surprised,” I say.

“Why would my opinion surprise you?”

I half turn my head in his direction. “Don’t you want humans to kill each other?”

I wait a long time for him to answer.

“Hmmm,” he eventually says, “I will have to mull this over.”

And he must, because the last bit of our ride goes by in silence.

By the time the sky is an ominous gray purple and the shadows are long, Pestilence and I still haven’t come across a house. The horseman directs Trixie off the road to a relatively flat area nestled between mossy evergreens.

“We will stop here for the night,” Pestilence announces, pulling his horse to a stop.

The two of us spend the next hour setting up camp. First comes a paltry fire, which is more for looks than anything else, since the wood we burn is far too green to do much besides smoke and sizzle. Which is unfortunate, considering the first drops of rain hit me right as we finish lighting it.

Next comes the tent, and it’s pretty obvious from the start that this piece of equipment is old. The material is that synthetic waterproof stuff that no one makes anymore, and the color of it is a time-faded gray and maroon. The aluminum poles that go with it are nicked and bent.

Still, I bet the thing was one of the priciest pieces in that outpost. Shame that we’ll probably discard it in the next city we come to.

I frown at the structure once we finish setting it up.

Not only is the thing old, it’s small. That means Pestilence and I are going to have to snuggle.

My heart gives a traitorous leap at the possibility.

“You did this on purpose,” I accuse.

“I did what?” the horseman asks, rising to his feet on the other side of the tent. He dusts his hands off.

“Found us a small tent.”

He comes around to where I stand and assesses the tent between us, his muscled arms folded over each other. His armor and weaponry sits off to the side, and the silky black material of his shirt seems to hug his broad shoulders and tapered waist.

“It could be bigger,” Pestilence agrees. And then he moves away, unloading the rest of our supplies.

That’s it?

I worry my lower lip. The rain is beginning to fall in a steady patter, and I know it’s only going to get worse. No way am I going to sleep outside tonight. As it is, there aren’t nearly enough blankets.

I really am going to have to snuggle with the horseman. The idea makes me distinctly nervous, especially when I can still feel the memory of his kiss on my lips.

I cast a sidelong glance at the horseman. He crouches in front of our meager campfire, the wood hissing and sputtering as he tends to it.

Why isn’t he affected by this?

Feeling the weight of my gaze on him, he glances up at me, his blue eyes piercing. He straightens a little when he takes in my expression. “What is it, Sara?”

Sara. He says my name like it’s a piece of a prayer.

“Nothing,” I say, rubbing my arms, where beneath my layers of clothing, goosebumps pucker along my skin.

He notices the action, his brow furrowing. “It’s not nothing.” Pestilence stands, glancing around. “What are you frightened of?”

I’m not having this conversation. I’m not.

I brush my hair away from my face. “I just … thought I heard something.”

Pestilence frowns. “Anyone who tries to get close to us is doomed. You are safe, Sara.”

But I’m not. Not from him, and not from my own heart.

Chapter 25

I pull my coat closer as I stare at the sputtering flames between me and Pestilence. The night brought with it a biting chill that not even a halfway decent campfire could ward off.

And this is no halfway decent campfire.

The rain steadily falls, but it’s not yet bad enough to drive me into the Tent of Doom.

The last of our meal sits comfortably in my stomach.

Not our meal, I correct. Your meal.

Pestilence hadn’t been willing to eat any of the food we were carrying, nor to drink any of the water.

I do not need it, Sara, he said when I offered it to him. You do.

He may not have needed it, but his eyes still lingered on the food the same way they’d been coming back to my lips again and again.

He may not need these things, but he’s developed a taste for them.

I hold my tin mug tightly between my hands, the tea keeping the cold from my fingers.

Across the fire, Pestilence’s gaze is like the stroke of a lover. I can feel it as though it were soft fingers brushing along my bare skin.

My eyes move up to his.

The hazy smoke distorts the horseman’s features, but I can still make out his sharp jaw and wavy golden hair. One leg is sprawled out in front of him, the other drawn up to his chest.

If the cold is affecting him at all, he doesn’t let on.

He stares at me, the look in his eyes both familiar and strange. It’s the kind of look that has me ducking my head and tucking a strand of hair behind my ear, like I’m some coquettish thing. It’s the kind of look that reminds me that regardless of his intentions, Pestilence is still a man, and a damn good-looking one at that.

“What?” I ask, swirling my tea around and around in my dented mug.

It’s not fucking wine, Burns. You don’t need to aerate it.

“I don’t understand your question,” he says.

Of course he doesn’t.

“You’re staring at me,” I explain. “I want to know why.”

“Can I not stare at you without having to explain myself?”

“It’s rude to stare at someone.” I still won’t look at him.

“Are you offended?” he asks, curious.

I’m flattered. And that offends me.