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“I can clean my wounds well enough without your crude methods.”

Oh, that’s right.

“Fine.” I stand up and go to the kitchen, rifling through the cupboards until I find two glasses. I bring them back. Pouring a shot into one of them, I hand the glass to him.

He takes it, giving the liquor a tentative whiff before wincing.

“To help with the pain,” I explain.

“What does it matter?” he says, lowering his glass. “It will be over with eventually.”

“Oh, for the love of—” I pour myself a double shot and take a deep swallow of it. I top my drink off, then set the whiskey aside.

Pestilence absolutely sucks at playing patient.

I grab the roll of gauze once more, intending to at least bandage his wounds. But as I reach out for him, he catches my wrist. “Sara,” he says softly, “cease this. I appreciate the gesture, but it is in vain.”

As he speaks, a bullet at his throat oozes out of the hole it burrowed in him.

So freaky.

My eyes meet his. “Alright.” Not going to twist his arm trying to help him if he doesn’t want it.

I get up, grabbing the bottle of Red Label and my glass.

I’m halfway out of the living room when he calls out, “Where are you going?”

“To take a bath.” Need some goddamn alone time.

I close myeyes and lean back against the tub, draping my arms over the rim and idly swirling my glass of whiskey. I can almost forget my life has gone to complete and utter cow shit.

Down the hall I hear the thump and scrape of Pestilence as he makes his way closer to me. A minute later the door creaks open. I crack my eyes just enough to see him limp into the bathroom, holding his midsection gingerly, his still-full glass of whiskey in his hands.

“I want to be alone,” I say, closing my eyes once more. I don’t bother covering myself. He’s already seen me naked. More than once. Also, I doubt he’s feeling all that lusty when he’s barely holding himself together.

“Human, you have clearly forgotten that you’re my prisoner.”

Once, I was—and he had to stand guard over me to make sure I didn’t bolt. But I don’t know if I am any longer. That should bother me, but right now I have no more fucks to give.

I snort. “Do you really think I’m going to run?”

“You did in Vancouver.”

Not going to open my eyes and let him ruin this moment I’m having.

“You would’ve too if you were about to be trampled by a horseman.”

He guffaws, but then falls to silence.

“This drink tastes horrible,” he says after a moment.

So he tried it when I wasn’t looking. Sneaky horseman.

“Common opinion is that you don’t drink liquor because it tastes good.” I take a swallow from my own glass.

He grunts.

I pry my eyes open just enough to see him polish off the shot I gave him.