Page 194 of Famine

He lays down next to me and pulls me close. “Then what were you thinking about when you were staring at it?”

“Like I said, this is all too good to be true. And good things don’t happen to me.”

Famine’s eyes go soft, and it’s an attractive look on him. “That’s not true. Not anymore. Not for either of us.”

He holds me tight, and that’s how I begin the first night of truly living with the Reaper—in his arms, in our bed, with his wildness all around us.

Chapter 49

It doesn’t take long for the house to be brought back from the dead. Eventually all of the home’s old furniture is either cleaned and used, or discarded. All the leaves and nests, trash and animal remains that once lay scattered on the floors are neatly removed.

For perhaps the first time, I see a truly gentle side of Famine emerging. He’s the one responsible for coaxing out the last of the living animals who’ve taken up residence in our dilapidated house. At the moment, he’s found a colony of mice in the walls.

He leans into an exposed wall, reaching for the small animals. Famine’s armor is gone, and his scythe and scales are laying haphazardly in our bedroom. This is about as normal as the horseman ever looks, and I have to say, he still doesn’t look that normal.

He’s too sexy—much, much too sexy—to ever just blend in. Not to mention that his sleeves are rolled up, showcasing the glowing green tattoos on his lower forearms.

I watch him as he retrieves one of the squeaking animals, cupping it in his hand.

“You’re just going to draw them back in with those fruit trees of yours,” I say as he pets the thing’s forehead with his thumb.

Because of course the trees Famine grew on our first night produce fruit. Fruit that will drop and rot on the ground and draw in rodents and all other sorts of wild critters.

Rather than removing thehighlyproblematic trees, the horseman hired people from the town to open up our roof so that they could better grow. Apparently the horseman isn’t worried about the fact that it rains often here. His response had been,I like you wet.

Now he says, “Don’t act like you disapprove. I know you have a soft spot for displaced creatures.”

Creatures like the horseman himself.

I continue to watch his rescue mission. “If I wake up to bird poop on me, you and I are going to have a problem.” Or a scorpion in my bed. I willshit bricksif I wake up to a scorpion in my bed.

“Come now, flower,” he says over his shoulder as he takes the rodent outside, “you’ve peed on my boots. What’s a little bird poop? Besides, it will keep you humble.”

Humble?

I like my overinflated ego just fine, thank you.

Famine heads towards the tree line of our new property, and the trees are another thing: with every passing day, the thick forest growing kilometers away seems to be creeping closer to our house. I know that one day soon, the foliage is going to be right at our doorstep.

As I stare off at the horseman, I feel that familiar lightness in my belly all over again.

I can’t believe I’m doing this—thatwe’redoing this. A retired prostitute and her apocalyptic boyfriend.

Life is strange.

I head back inside, and it’s as I’m passing by the living room I notice a new vine snaking up the back wall. I have to take a second look at it, just to make sure it’s not a snake, but nope, it’s another plant growing in yet another room of this house.

I hear the front door open and close behind me.

“Is this going to become a thing?” I ask, gesturing to the vine. Surrounding it are the other plants that sprung up when we first christened the place.

“Undoubtedly,” the horseman says smoothly.

I guess this is what happens when Famine is happy. Rather than killing things, he makes them grow. I mean, technically hedidgrow plants even when he was determined to kill all us humans, but that was different; those plants were his weapons, these ones are his houseguests.

The horseman comes over to me. He should be covered in sweat, but when his arms wrap around me, his skin is only slightly sticky, and even then, I’m pretty sure that’s a result of the humidity, not him.

“Does that bother you?” he asks, his voice bored. I’m not sure what to make of that tone. Sometimes his calmness is a trap set to spring, and other times it just is what it is.