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Spell’s broken.

“Please?” Pestilence pulls away to give me a look of disgust. “You say this to me now?” He runs a hand over his mouth and jaw, then looks around, like he’s waking from a dream.

He stands, and I can only stare up at him. I have nothing to say. No words to ameliorate the situation because I knowingly drove it here.

I begin to stand as well, but Pestilence places a hand on my shoulder to keep me in my seat, almost as though I were now the one pursuing him.

He sighs, suddenly looking every inch as exhausted as he should be, considering the day he had.

“It’s late, Sara,” he says. “You best get some sleep, we ride early tomorrow.”

With that he leaves me and the bourbon and this troubling emotion that I’m pretty sure is regret.

I know I should feel relieved—triumphant even. But, like the Good Book says, though the spirit may be willing, the flesh is, indeed, weak.

Chapter 23

Hangovers are theworst.

The next morning I force down the pancakes I made, hating that I can hardly enjoy them over my nausea.

This is why I don’t drink regularly.

Well, that and the fact that I can only afford moonshine most of the time. You don’t even need to get drunk on that sour piss to get a hangover.

I pet Pestilence’s horse, who spent the night inside and who’s now standing in the kitchen, snuffling the pancakes like he might like a taste.

Abandoning the pancakes, I stand and focus my attention on the horseman’s mount.

I run a hand down the steed’s neck. “You know, beneath your hardened exterior is just a woman who wants love and acceptance,” I say to Trixie.

“My steed is aman.” Pestilence says as he enters the room.

I tense at his voice. This is the first time today the two of us have shared the same space.

He comes up next to me to place a cursory hand on the horse, and damn my body but I am aware of every inch of him.

“Don’t listen to him, Trixie,” I say to the horse, ignoring the man next to me.

“Younamedhim?” Pestilence says incredulously.

He won’t look at me. I mean, I won’t look at him either, but he was the one who walked away from me last night, so …

I’m not looking at him first.

Apparently hangovers make me childish.

I pet Trixie’s white fur. It’s such a pure color, like fallen snow. “He needed a name.”

“‘Tricksy’?” Disapproval drips from Pestilence’s voice. “My steed isn’ttricksy. He’s a noble, loyal beast.”

That … is not the reason I named his pet Trixie.

“You don’t get to judge how I name him,” I say, “when you won’t name him at all.”

The horseman rotates to me, and sweet baby angels, just the feel of his gaze is flipping my stomach.

I finally gather up the courage to look at Pestilence. He’s back in his full regalia, his black clothes whole and unstained once more. His armor is now smooth and unblemished. His bow and quiver are at his back, the latter full of arrows when I was sure that yesterday it was near empty. It’s a neat trick how more than just his body can piece itself back together. Neat—and eerie.