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When I sneak a glance at him, he’s staring at me in a way that is no longer clinically detached like it once was. In fact, it’s a decidedly human look.

This is what longing looks like, I realize.

My alarm wars with this horrifyinggiddiness. It’s the same emotion I felt when I heard a rumor that Tom Becker, my high school crush, wanted to ask me out. Turned out, he wanted to ask out Sarah(such is life—it just loves to kick you in the happy sacs), but for a blissful twenty-four hours, I felt like baby angels were fluttering around in my stomach.

Just like I do right now.

I’ve had a decent amount of whiskey, but not enough to block out the sober realization that enjoying Pestilence’s gaze on my naked body is decidedlynotan appropriate reaction.

He rubs his face, looking weary and in pain, just how a man recovering from gunshot wounds ought to. Lifting his drink, he downs the second glass he poured for himself (which consisted of atleastthree shots of hard liquor). He grabs the bottle of Red Label and his now-empty glass and stands, his legs a little shaky.

He grabs the door handle, then pauses, his back to me. “Don’t try to run,” he warns over his shoulder. “I’d hate to catch you. Enough blood has been spilled today.”

Chapter 21

I got Pestilenceshitfaced.

That much is clear by the time I’m done bathing. I find him sprawled out on the couch, the now nearly-empty bottle of whiskey in his hand, his glass nowhere to be found.

When a horseman falls, he falls hard.

His head rolls to me. “You were right,” he says, holding up the bottle. “My mind is altered.”

Well, at least he’s still perceptive.

He stares at the label for a second. “Doesn’t even taste that bad anymore.”

How many hell points did I just gain, getting this guy drunk?

When his gaze returns to me, his eyes drop to my clothes. The look he gives them can’t be complimentary.

I managed to fish out an outfit from the closet in the master bedroom. By all appearances, the owners were an older, well-to-do couple. The man liked his khakis pressed and pleated, and the woman liked her clothes to drape and glitter.

I’m practically swimming in the slinky black top I wear, and I’ve had to cinch the pair of studded purple jeans to within an inch of their life to keep them from sliding off.

It was the best I could do.

I continue past Pestilence, heading for the kitchen, my stomach cramping with hunger. I pass Trixie along the way; the horse has managed to lay himself down in a side room, getting blood all over the owners’ throw rug.

Definitely going to leave this place looking like a crime scene.

The kitchen tile is chilly against my bare feet when I enter the room.

Now to see if this place has anything to eat.

I only have to open the pantry to realize there’s plenty. The deep shelves are nearly spilling over with canned and jarred goods, dried grains, and a staggering stash of liquor. The two of us could hunker down here for a good several weeks if we needed to—not that Pestilence would ever stay stationary for that long.

As I rummage around, grabbing pasta noodles and a can of red sauce, the horseman limps over to a chair in the kitchen. He’s rapidly healing now, the exposed bullet wounds looking more like red, pitted scars than bloody holes. He’s shrugged off his tattered shirt, and his sculpted, tapered torso is now fully on display.

He watches me for a long time, not saying anything as I begin boiling noodles and heating up the pasta sauce (electricity works here, woo!). It’s only after I finish preparing the meal and pull out another bottle of liquor (bourbon this time) that I join Pestilence at the table.

He doesn’t bother going for the plate of pasta I put in front of him, choosing instead to pour himself a generous helping of bourbon. He drinks deeply from it.

Dude’s cruising for a bruising the way he’s going at the alcohol.

He levels his gaze on me. “Why didn’t you leave me?” he asks, looking almost desperate for an answer. “You could have.”

My gut tightens in a queasy way, and I forget that I have a steaming plate of pasta right in front of me.