Page 136 of Famine

“You’re welcome,” I say, throwing his earlier words back at him.

He takes the cheese from me, a playful spark in his eyes. Peeling back the wax, he takes a bite.

“Ugh.” He makes a face. “Tastes like death too.” With that he drops the rest of his slice of cheese onto the ground, his gaze moving along to the next food that piques his interest.

“What is that like?” I ask, watching him move around the space.

Famine heads to the back of the pantry, where a door is set into the wall. He opens it and disappears into what looks like a wine cellar.

“What’s what like?” he calls out. “Death?” I can hear him rummaging around. “He’s a dour asshole, that’s what—

“Aha!”

Famine returns a moment later with a bottle of amber liquid in one hand and wine in the other, holding them up like war prizes.

“Not Death,” I say, shuddering at the thought of the fourth horseman, the one Famine clearly knows a little too well. “Being Famine and eating food.”

He comes in close to me. “You know, for a girl who made it her profession to lie on her back, you have averycurious mind.”

I try not to get my panties in a bunch over Famine’s description of what a prostitute does. Lying on my back! Iwish. Fulfilling fantasies is damn hard work.

Instead I say, “Curiosity is also a handy tool for sex work.” Veryhandy.

“Mmm,” the Reaper responds, removing the liquor’s corked lid as he does so. He takes a drink straight from the bottle.

“Ah,” he sighs out. “This tastes like death too—but a much better version of it. Death at his most appealing.”

That’s the second time Famine has mentioned the horseman within that many minutes.

“Does he actually have a personality? Death?” I ask, intrigued.

Famine gives me a look that plainly states I’m an idiot. “Do I?” he asks.

I take the bottle from him. “Anger isn’t a personality,” I tease.

I don’t point out that not so long ago Famine was the one who was insisting he lacked a core personality.

He takes it back from me. “But attitudeis.”

And the Reaper has boundless attitude.

“Alright,” I concede, “you made your point.”

“Hmm,” he says, scrutinizing me as he takes a drink of the liquor.

I realize as I watch his throat work, that Ireallywant those lips back on me. And those hands—hands that have cut down so many—I want them to slide over my skin.

I want them to relieve this growing ache I feel when I’m around him.

Famine lowers the bottle, giving me a suspicious look.

“What are you thinking about?” he asks.

Hellnoam I going to admit my true thoughts.

“Just thinking about Death,” I reply.

Wrong response.