Page 119 of Famine

I pause to press my mouth against my shoulder.

You can do this, Ana. It’s almost out.

Forcing down my nausea, I pull, wiggling the arrow shaft back and forth. With a final slick, sucking sound, the projectile slides out.

I have to swallow my cry—which is half relief, half horror—as I cast the arrow aside.

Need to check the rest of him.

God, I hate this. I hate it even more than the discovery that I actually care for this insufferable creature.

I force my hands back on Famine and, starting with his head, I run my fingers over him, looking for other injuries. One of his arms ends at his wrist, the other at his elbow. I also find gaping wounds at his neck and one of his legs, as though Heitor’s men tried and failed to remove the appendages.

The entire process is awful. Famine is so still that there’s no mistaking that he’s dead.

Once I’m done, I reach out and touch the Reaper’s face again with a bloody, trembling hand. This terrible, complex monster. Most of the time he’s the evilest thing in any given place, but right now … right now Heitor and his men hold that title.

My fingers trail along Famine’s cheek. I’m so close to losing it, but I force myself to stay strong, just for a while longer. So instead, I stretch myself out next to the Reaper, laying a hand on his chest, just so that when he wakes, he won’t be alone.

And then I wait.

The cool evening air stirs my hair and sways the dead stalks of sugarcane around me. It’s an oddly peaceful night given how horrific it’s been. I draw in several deep breaths.

I killed a man—maybe two, if Heitor didn’t survive my attack.

I can still remember how easy it was to bring that knife down on the man’s throat—how easily it cut through skin and sinew. I can remember how remorseless I felt in that moment, and I know deep down that I would do it again if someone found me and Famine hiding out here.

I glance over at the horseman, frowning. I’d do all of it again for this man, because wicked or not, violent or not, Famine might be the only being who has ever truly seen me and cared for me. And … I might be the only person who has ever really seen and cared for him.

It’s made us both begrudgingly loyal to each other.

That thought lingers with me as the night toils on. Every so often I hear men shouting and horses galloping up and down the nearest road, but only once does anyone stop by this field. Even then it’s only for a few agonizing minutes. Then I hear their horse retreat and I breathe easy again.

I don’t know how long I lay motionless next to the Reaper—out here with the endless sky above us and the vast fields around us. It feels like time drifts, but at some point, I sense Famine …surfacing.

He moans, the sound tightening my chest. The tears that I’ve kept back are now starting to mutiny.

“Hey there,” I tell him, my voice wavering. I reach out and stroke his face softly. “It’s me—Ana.”

He makes an undiscernible noise and tries to move his head, and the whole thing is so goddamn heartbreaking that I have to take a few breaths before I continue.

“You’re safe,” I say, the lie coming easily to my lips. “You were ambushed by Heitor and his men,” I whisper into his ear. “They’re looking for us at the moment, so we have to stay quiet.”

Beneath my touch, the horseman is still.

Did he pass out again?

But then he reaches for my arm, letting out a pained sound when he realizes his own isgone. In the dim moonlight his eyes slid to mine. There’s no faking the broken hopelessness in his gaze.

“I’m so sorry,” I whisper, my tears starting to leak out. “So, so sorry.” I move then and, careful to not jostle him too much, I pull the horseman into my arms and stroke his hair.

Famine is shaking, and I can only imagine his pain.

I whisper my apologies over and over. And then, holding him to me, I let myself fall apart. I cry for every awful thing that’s happened to him at the hands of evil men. And then I cry for all the awful things that have happened to me at the hands of evil men, things I normally don’t let myself dwell on. I give in to all the pain and suffering that feels like it’s been needlessly inflicted on us.

This world is a cruel place.

“I don’t blame you for hating us,” I whisper. “I don’t. I wish I could—it would make things so much easier—but I don’t.” I hold him to me again in the darkness, rocking us together.