He hooks his fingers under the duct tape binding my wrists, and with a swift jerk, he rips it in two.

Note to self: this fucker is strong.

He tears the rest of the tape away and unties the rope from the railing. Once he has it in hand, he leads me down the hallway, only stopping once we get to the bathroom.

Problem number one occurs as soon as he closes the door behind us.

I glance at the massive chest that blocks the exit.

“It’s called privacy,” I say.

“I’m aware of the term, conniving human,” he says, crossing his arms. “Why you think you deserve it is a question for a higher power.”

I huff and turn from him.

Problem number two occurs after I try to undo my pants. I barely have feeling in my hands, let alone the dexterity needed for the task.

Damnit.

“I need help.”

Pestilence leans against the door. “I’m disinclined to give you any.”

“Oh, for the love of—”

“God?” he finishes for me, raising his eyebrows. “Do you really think He is going to help you?”

The scholar in me is instantly piqued by his words, but now is not exactly the time to learn all the mysteries of the universe.

I blow out a breath. “Look, if you’re regretting keeping me alive, then kill me, but if you are married to this idea of yours, I’d really appreciate it if you’d pull my goddamned pants down.”

“Would it make you suffer to mess yourself?” he asks.

I hesitate. He has to know this is a loaded question.

Which answer is likelier to not screw me over?

“Yeah,” I finally say, settling on the truth, “it would.”

He leans against the door. “As I said, I’m disinclined to help.”

He doesn’t move to leave, however, and now I’m simply grateful I have a toilet to pee in.

I grit my teeth as I try again to unzip my pants. The rope digs into my chafed wrists, and they scream in protest. It takes an agonizing amount of time, but I finally manage to unbutton my jeans, then drag them, the long johns beneath them, and my underwear all down.

Pestilence’s impersonal gaze is on me, looking at my lady goods, which are on full display.

Kill me now.

He curls his lip.

“I’m sorry,” I say, “but if this fucking bothers you, then you can step outside.” And let me pee then escape in peace.

“Empty yourself, human. I’m tired of standing here.”

Muttering several curses beneath my breath, I do just that.

A horseman of the apocalypse is watching me pee.

Of all the sentences in the English language I could’ve come up with, that is not one I ever imagined thinking. I bite back a crazy laugh. I’m going to die, but not before my dignity is murdered first.

Wiping myself, flushing, then pulling my pants back up takes even longer—as does washing my hands.

At least there still is water to wash my hands with. Unlike household electricity, running water was hit far less severely. Why beats the hell out of me, though I’m not going to complain. It’s helped put out many a fire since the world ended.

Once I’m finished, the horseman leads me back down the hall, giving my restraints a jerk that nearly throws me off my feet. And then I’m tied to that damn railing once more and he’s back to the fire.

“So is this what you do?” I ask. “Go from town to town and invade people’s homes?”

“No,” he says over his shoulder.

“Then why did we stop here?” I ask.

He exhales, like I’m impossibly tedious—which I am, but honestly, homeboy has a long learning curve ahead of him because he ain’t seen nothing yet—and ignores me.

That’s his main move, I’m coming to find.

I turn my attention from his back to my injured wrists.

“What happened to the others?” I ask, more subdued.

“What others?” he responds gruffly.

I’m honestly shocked he’s still engaging with me.

“The others who tried to kill you.”

The horseman turns from the fire, his icy eyes catching the light from the flames. “I ended them.”

I don’t see any remorse on his face for those deaths, either.

“So then I’m your first kidnap victim?” I probe.

He huffs. “Hardly a victim,” he says. “But I will keep you and make an example of you. Perhaps then your dimwitted kind will think twice about plots to destroy me.”

Now and only now is my predicament really hitting me.

I’m not letting you die. Too quick, he’d said. Suffering is made for the living. And oh, how I will make you suffer.

An unbidden shiver runs down my spine. Bloody wrists and aching legs might be the least of my concerns.

The worst, I’m sure, is yet to come.

Chapter 6

I’m still not sick.

And I’m still alive—albeit, I’m not exactly enthusiastic about it.

Everything hurts so much worse the next day. My wrists are one sharp, burning throb, my shoulders are stiff and sore from all the hours they’ve been stuck in this bound position, my stomach is actively trying to eat itself, and my legs are useless with pain.

Oh, and I’m still chained to this shithole railing.

The only silver lining has been the few glasses of water Pestilence brought to me (one of which I accidently poured all over myself rather than in my mouth because my hands are still bound and God legit hates me), and the fact that the horseman has been kind enough to take me to the bathroom again so that he doesn’t have to “smell my vile stink”.

I hate the pretty bastard.

“‘This above all: to thine own self be true,’” I mutter under my breath. The line from Hamlet comes to me from memory. The meaning of it has been worn down like river rocks from time and overuse, but the words still affect me all the same. “‘And it must follow, as the night the day—’” My voice cuts off when I see Pestilence.

Last night he wore jeans and a flannel shirt, but this morning he’s clad in a black ensemble that fits him like a glove. Both the fabric and cut of his clothes manage to look simultaneously archaic and futuristic, though I can’t say precisely why. Maybe it’s not even the clothes—maybe it’s his crown or the bow and quiver slung haphazardly over his shoulder. Whatever he is, he’s looking distinctly otherworldly.

“I am going to untie you from the railing, human,” he says by way of greeting, “but mark me: if you try to flee, I will shoot you, then drag you back here.”

I stare at the deep V of his dark shirt, catching just a glimpse of one of those glowing tattoos.

“Did you hear me?” he asks.

I blink, and my gaze moves to his face.

The last of the horseman’s wounds have healed—even his hair has fully regrown. Only took a day for him to completely regenerate. How disheartening.

“If I bolt, I’m dead meat. Got it.”

His brows furrow and he studies me for a second longer before grunting. With that, he pulls me along to the kitchen.

Using one of his booted feet, he kicks out a chair. “Sit.”

I grimace at him but do as he commands.

Pestilence strides away from me, opening cupboard doors seemingly at random before closing them and moving on. Eventually, he opens the home’s icebox and pulls out a loaf of bread (Who refrigerates their bread?) and a bottle of Worcestershire sauce from it.