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He’s not going to be chill about it either, I can already tell.

After we finished last night, he took me to bed. I don’t remember much except the warm press of his body behind mine, holding me close. He woke me up twice to his roving lips, and after a bit more exploration, he fit himself inside me and screwed me until I was calling out his name.

That wasn’t what was bad. I have no complaints at all about bumping uglies. It’s everything that’s happened since then.

Like bringing me breakfast in bed—breakfast that he most definitely lifted from someone else’s house because this homeowner didn’t have bacon and eggs. Also, I didn’t know Pestilence couldcook.

He could’ve forced someone else to cook this breakfast for you.

I shut that thought down before I can imagine just what sort of scenario could’ve led tothatoutcome.

He’s also been pulling me aside all morning to steal quick kisses, or confess all those things he’d already admitted to me that night I was “asleep.”

Don’t get me wrong, they’re nice gestures, gestures that make my heart soar and fill my stomach with those idiotic butterflies, but last night was simply a bout of quick and dirty sex and nothing more.

Absolutely nothing more.

Long after we’ve left the bachelor-pad-turned-love-shack behind, after I’ve quoted Pestilence some Poe (Is all that we see or seem, but a dream within a dream?), I think the worst of his adoration has blown over.

Until he leads us to a church.

I stare, uncomprehending, at the building, with its severe spire and the marquee that states,God’s chosen can never truly die.

“What are you doing?” I ask.

“Sara, you gave yourself to me, wholly and completely. I want to show you my commitment.”

I scrunch my features, his meaning not immediately coming to me. It takes several ridiculously long seconds to put it all together. But then—

He wants … he wants … tomarryme? After last night?

Shit on a motherfucking stick.I mean, I know I’m a decent lay, but I’m notthatgood.

I glance over my shoulder at him. “Is this a pity proposal?”

He squints. “I don’t follow.”

I sigh, facing the church once more. It’s seriously doubtful that there even is an ordained minister inside to oversee the ceremony …

Why am I even thinking about this?

“I don’t want to marry you,” I say.

Several silent seconds tick by.

Finally, “Why ever not?” Pestilence sounds offended. “Are youashamedof me?”

“Huh?” I’m completely confused. I turn back to him. “You know that people don’t just … ”Get married.

Except plenty of peopledojust get married—people who know each other less well than we do and for reasons that are far less solid than,I fucked you, you’re now mine.

It’s just that I, Sara Burns, need slightly more motivation before I marry a freaking horseman of the apocalypse.

“Why do you want to marry me?” I ask.

This is not a conversation I ever imagined having.

“You gave yourself over to me, as I did you,” Pestilence says. “You are mine, mind, spirit,flesh.”