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He may not have needed it, but his eyes still lingered on the food the same way they’d been coming back to my lips again and again.

He may not need these things, but he’s developed a taste for them.

I hold my tin mug tightly between my hands, the tea keeping the cold from my fingers.

Across the fire, Pestilence’s gaze is like the stroke of a lover. I can feel it as though it were soft fingers brushing along my bare skin.

My eyes move up to his.

The hazy smoke distorts the horseman’s features, but I can still make out his sharp jaw and wavy golden hair. One leg is sprawled out in front of him, the other drawn up to his chest.

If the cold is affecting him at all, he doesn’t let on.

He stares at me, the look in his eyes both familiar and strange. It’s the kind of look that has me ducking my head and tucking a strand of hair behind my ear, like I’m some coquettish thing. It’s the kind of look that reminds me that regardless of his intentions, Pestilence is still a man, and a damn good-looking one at that.

“What?” I ask, swirling my tea around and around in my dented mug.

It’s not fucking wine, Burns. You don’t need to aerate it.

“I don’t understand your question,” he says.

Of course he doesn’t.

“You’re staring at me,” I explain. “I want to know why.”

“Can I not stare at you without having to explain myself?”

“It’s rude to stare at someone.” I still won’t look at him.

“Are you offended?” he asks, curious.

I’mflattered. Andthatoffends me.

“Unsettled,” I say. “I feel unsettled by it.”

“Why am I not surprised?” he mutters to himself. “You want me to understand your kind, and yet when I show any interest, you condemn my curiosity.”

I literally have nothing to say to that. I don’t even know whether he’s right or if he just strung enough pretty words together that he appears right.

Not going to psychoanalyze that one.

“Fine,” I say, taking a sip of my tea and meeting his gaze. “Look your fill.”

His eyes stare unwaveringly back at me. “I will.”

I’m about to look away because it does feel horribly weird to have someone openly appraising you, but then—fuckthat. If he’s going to stare, then so am I.

I take him in, from the arched tips of his golden crown to his dark shirt and soft leather boots. My gaze shifts to his hands—he has oddly attractive hands for a man.

Of course he does, Sara. Everything about him is attractive. It’s you who’s only starting to notice the fine details.

Pestilence smiles as my eyes rove over him, and I swear he presses his shoulders back just a little at my inspection.

“Are you enjoying what you’re looking at?” I ask, even as I drink him in. The comment is supposed to be snarky, but it comes off more like bait for a compliment.

“Your formisoddly pleasing to me.”

Like just about everything else Pestilence says, his words bring out two opposing emotions. My blood heats, and yet …pleasing? A painting ispleasing. Andoddlyso?