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He keeps circling back to this damn subject. I had hoped he’d let it go.

“Were you afraid I’d find you and hurt you?” Pestilence presses.

I could lie. He probably wouldn’t realize I’d fed him a fib. The only problem is that no good excuse is coming to me.

I open my mouth, then I choose instead to pour myself another drink. What the hell—he’s not doing this sober; I shouldn’t have to either.

Taking several deep swallows, I down the bourbon, then set the empty glass down hard on the table.

“I don’t know,” I answer, pouring myself another drink before I set the bottle aside. “That’s the truth.” I stare at my scabbed wrists. “Back in Vancouver, all I could think of was helping those people who’d been hurt in the chaos.” I take a breath and forge on, my eyes reluctantly rising to his turbulent blue ones. “And once we landed on the beach, all I could think of was helping you.”

He frowns at me. If he was looking for solace in my explanation, I gave him none.

“Why did you come back for me?” I ask. “Back in Vancouver.”

He looks affronted by the question. “You are my prisoner. I do not mean to let you go.”

“You pushed me off your horse,” I state.

His expression gives me nothing.

“You did that so that I wouldn’t get shot, didn’t you?” I ask, peering at him.

If Pestilence is disturbed by the fact that I stayed with him and tended to his wounds (or tried to at least), then I’m most unnerved by the fact that he spared me from pain.

“You’re no good to me dead, Sara.”

“Why is that?” I ask, searching his face. “Why am I alive and here with you while your other attackers lie dead in the streets of Vancouver?”

His mouth tightens. “Because I deemed it so.”

I take another drink of my bourbon. “That’s not an answer.”

“It’s the only one you’re going to get.”

Damn him, this question is going to drive me mad.

Begrudgingly, I turn my attention to the pasta, swirling my fork in the noodles and scooping up a bite. As soon as it hits my tongue, I take a moment to savor the pasta.

Lord Almighty, I’d forgotten how good food is when you have a little liquor in your system. If I’m not careful, that two weeks’ worth of food is going to be polished off by the end of the night—particularly if everything else tastes as good as this does.

Across from me, the horseman’s gaze is riveted to my mouth. He tears his gaze away to look down at his plate. Lifting his fork, he tries to take a bite himself, but the thin pasta noodles slide uselessly between the metal tines.

I can’t help it, I laugh. Getting up, I come over to his side of the table. He glances at me, his eyes bright and perhaps a little vulnerable. I think the alcohol is getting to us both.

Leaning over his shoulder and trying not to notice how pretty his torso is (for shame, Sara, he’s still hurt), I take the hand that’s holding the fork.

“What are you doing?” he asks, staring at our joined hands. There’s a note in his voice …

“Here, turn your fork like this.” Awkwardly, I maneuver the utensil in a circle. “Then scoop.” I lift the fork, strands of pasta now wrapped around it. “This is how you eat it.”

I can’t see his expression, and he doesn’t say anything in response, so I return to my seat, feeling like I overstepped, which is ridiculous in light of everything the two of us have been through.

Pestilence takes a tentative bite of the pasta. If I was hoping for some sort of amazing reaction, I’m sorely disappointed. He simply glowers at the dish as he chews.

“I shouldn’t be eating this.”

I don’t bother to ask him why not. I already know it’s his weird hang up on “mortal vices.” I think he’s finding out the hard way that despite how willing a horseman’s spirit is, even their flesh is weak.