Page 54 of Famine

I raise my eyebrows, my expression blatantly saying,prove me wrong.

After a moment, the horseman flashes me a wicked smile. In the short time I’ve spent with him, I’ve learned he grins when he’s particularly dangerous to be around.

Famine grabs his glass of wine and props his ankles on the table. “Let me start again: what makes a young girl choose to save a horseman of the apocalypse?”

“You want to have that conversationnow?” I ask, my gaze darting back at the men standing in the living room.

Famine just continues to stare at me, and I realize this simple question has been burning him up—maybe for years.

Has he really experienced so little humanity that he can’t understand what I did?

I take a few bites of my food before answering.

“At the time, I thought what they did to you was wrong,” I say, not meeting his eyes.

“You don’t think so anymore?” he asks.

Another loaded question.

Now I meet his gaze. “I can’t believe you have the audacity to ask that when I can still hear your victims’ moans.”

The horseman makes a cavalier sound in the back of his throat. “And yet you still don’t hate me enough to kill me,” he reminds me.

I think of the blade I pressed against his skin. How badly I wanted to hurt him—and how in the end I didn’t.

“Give me a knife and we can test that theory,” I say.

The horseman nods to my utensils. “Go ahead,” he says.

I follow his gaze to the steak knife resting next to my plate, identical to the one he stabbed Ricardo with. I make no move to grab it.

“What would be the use?” I say. “I’ve seen you heal from death before.”

Famine doesn’t call out the fact that if I really felt this way, I would’ve never threatened him in the first place.

Instead, he grabs his wine and swishes it around in his cup. “So, you regretfully saved me, I destroyed some things you cared about,”—he destroyedeverythingI cared about—“and we parted ways. How’ve you spent the rest of our time apart?” he asks.

“Mainly with my mouth open and my legs spread,” I say.

Usually, this sort of language is shocking, and I enjoy scandalizing my audience. But Famine doesn’t so much as lift an eyebrow.

Iwillfigure out how to push his buttons, damnit.

“That seems uncomfortable,” he says smoothly.

“No more so than having to wear manacles.” I raise my hands and jingle my chains just to emphasize my point.

“So, you joined a whorehouse and made a living out of getting used?” he asks, his razor-sharp attention focused on me. Between his blinding good looks and his God-awful personality, that attention is particularly off-putting.

“You disapprove,” I say.

He lifts a shoulder. “I disapprove of everything you humans do. Don’t take it personally.”

I don’t.

Instead, I settle into my own seat. “Don’t tell me you’veneverwanted to dip your wick?”

When nothing registers on his face, I elaborate. “You know, polish the brass?”