Page 107 of Famine

Heitor’s hand slips down my backside and squeezes my ass. Just like that, my attention shifts from the opulent room to the man who led me here.

“Enjoy your room,” he says, his eyes lingering on me, his expression saying,I own you.

For a moment, I don’t react. Over the last five years, I’ve been conditioned to go along with unsolicited attention—that was how I landed new clients—but old conditioning is meeting new. I don’t want the attention, not from Heitor; and besides, I think he did it to demean me.

My old programming finally snaps into place. I step into Heitor’s space.

“It takes a lot more than an ass-grab to get me off,” I say, my voice low, intimate, “but I appreciate the attempt, all the same.”

There’s a spark of …somethingin the man’s eyes. Maybe it’s curiosity, maybe it’s interest. Or maybe Heitor thought I was a conquerable challenge, and now he’s realizing that even I come with sharp teeth.

He holds my gaze for a second longer. “You’ll know when I’m trying to get you off. Perhaps sooner than you realize.”

Rocha turns his back on me and walks away, his shoes clicking along the floor.

Long after he’s gone, my skin still crawls.

Definitely going to die soon.

Chapter 27

That evening I sit with Famine in Heitor Rocha’s grand dining room, fidgeting as the two of us wait for dinner.

“This is a bad idea,” I whisper to the horseman.

He leans back in his seat, slinging a leg over his knee. “Loosen up a little, flower.”

I open my mouth to fire back a retort when several of Heitor’s men enter the room, each carrying a platter of food. Heitor himself is nowhere to be seen.

So much for serving us.

“And where is your insufferable boss?” the Reaper asks, noticing Rocha’s absence. “I believe I asked him and not you all to serve me.”

One of the men mutters something vague about Rocha being in the next town over, making arrangements on the horseman’s behalf.

It’s more likely that Heitor is wherever the hell Heitor wants to be; not even Famine himself can make him do otherwise.

The Reaper glares at the men, but just when I think he’s going to grab his scythe and start gutting them, he leans back in his seat and lets them set the platters of food on the table.

“You there,” Famine calls, pointing to one of the men.

The man’s eyes move to the horseman. It’s not fear I see in those dark irises—more like caution. I guess that’s what you get when you’re used to working around sociopaths.

The Reaper gestures for him to come over, even as the other men set down their dishes and retreat back into the kitchen.

“What is it?” the man asks, moving towards Famine.

“Grab a plate. Sit.”

Maybe I was wrong earlier. Maybe Famine is planning on killing someone right now.

The man hesitates for only a moment, then he leaves the room, returning with a plate.

Tentatively, he sits across from us.

“Serve yourself,” the Reaper orders. “There’s plenty here, and I want you to try everything.” He sounds almost benevolent, like he himself made the dishes.

The guard eyes Famine for only a second or two before he reaches for each dish, putting a little of this and a little of that on his plate until it’s a heaping tray of everything.