Page 157 of Famine

“Will you stop?” I say. “There’s nothing to figure out.”

“Liar.”

I hate that he’s right, and I hate that he’s so astute. In all likelihood, not only will the horseman probably learn my secret by this evening, he’ll manage to pulverize my brittle little heart while he’s at it.

Because such is my luck.

The sun is setting when Famine steers us to an obviously abandoned house.

I eye the dilapidated structure. “And here I thought that you never wanted to stay in another one of these again.”

“Would you prefer to sleep outside?” he asks, his fingers rubbing the obviously wet fabric of my dress together. It’s rained off and on all day.

“You could always fix the weather.”

He makes a derisive sound. “Of course you would ask me to change the weather just to make yourself more comfortable.”

“Oh my God, Famine, calm your tits.”

“I don’t have t—”

“I’m not trying to make you do anything. I’m just reminding you that you threw the world’s biggest hissy when we stopped at the last abandoned house,” I say.

“And you threw an equally bighissywhen we stopped at an occupied house,” he replies.

I sputter. “Yeah, because you were going to kill a woman.”

“And so I brought you to an abandoned house,” he says slowly, gesturing to the building in front of us.

Humph.

“Fine,” I say begrudgingly. “You made your point.”

He guides the horse almost all the way up to the front door before stopping his steed and hopping off. After a moment, I dismount and follow him inside.

Unlike the last abandoned house we stayed at, this one is in much better condition—relatively speaking. There’s even a hand pump well just outside the back of the house. The place also shows signs that other travelers have stayed in it. Used up matches, cigarette butts, a beat up book, a few empty liquor bottles, and a clay oil lamp someone left behind.

Famine turns around, his gaze finding mine. A moment later, his eyes dip to my chest. Belatedly, I realize that my rose colored dress is soaked through, molding perfectly to my breasts. Breasts that the Reaper is now staring at.

Just like that, it seems as though last night never ended. I can see Famine’s hunger; it matches my own.

It looks like it takes him enormous effort, but he eventually tears his gaze away, his eyes landing heavily on mine as he exhales.

This is going to be harder than I thought, his expression seems to say. Or maybe those are my own thoughts.

The horseman brushes past me then, heading back outside.

“Why don’t you just bring your horse inside?” I call after him. It’s not like anyone cares about what a horse might do to this place.

The Reaper comes back in carrying several sacks and his scythe. He tosses his weapon onto the floor, the metal clattering as it skids along the ground. “Make him endure this moldy, cramped space? I may be wicked, but I am notthatwicked.”

I give him a funny look. “You are so odd.”

Everything he believes—all his opinions and assumptions—are unlike anything I’ve ever come across.

“No, my flower, it is you who are odd. Lewd and witty and very, exceptionally odd.”

He sets the packs he’s carrying onto a derelict table, the wood swollen and warped. In one of them, I hear the clink of what must be Famine’s scales. He, however, turns his attention to the other bag. From it, he pulls out a blanket and the remnants of last night’s food.