Page 90

I don’t knowhow long I sleep for, only that I’m awoken by the sound of footsteps.

Going to kill you. He’s going to kill you.

A burst of fear floods my system, and I scramble to sit up, forcing my eyes to focus on the noise.

Pestilence comes over to me, a towel wrapped around his waist. “Be calm,” he says, kneeling at my side. He tucks a strand of my chestnut hair behind my ear. “It’s only me.”

It’s only Pestilence, the one being the rest of the world fears. And the sight of him brings me an embarrassing amount of relief.

I take a deep, stuttering breath. “It’s been a long day.”

The horseman’s wet hair drips between us, and rivulets of water cut down his chest. I feel a rush of heat at the sight of his bare skin. The firelight caresses every dip and curve, and not for the first time, I notice the exquisiteness of his form. His high cheekbones and full lips look all the more extreme as the shadows dance along them. And then there’s the rest of him, which is all so distinctly male, from his sculpted, powerful shoulders to his thick, cut biceps.

My eyes drop to his chest, where his rounded pecs flow into rippling abs. But it’s impossible to look at his torso without noticing the strange, glowing marks that shimmer in the darkness, illuminating the surrounding skin.

I reach out and run my fingers over the letters that curve beneath his collarbones like a necklace. They glow with a golden fire, their form strange and beautiful.

Beneath my touch, Pestilence’s skin jumps. He holds very still, letting me explore his body.

“What are these?” I ask. It’s obvious it’s writing, but it’s a language unlike anything I’ve ever seen.

He stares down at me, his eyes bright. “My purpose, written into flesh.”

The horseman places a hand over mine, effectively trapping it against one of the symbols. Steering my hand with his, he has me trace the marking.

“This one means ‘divinely ordained,’” he explains, releasing his grip.

I raise my eyebrows at him before my attention drops back to his chest. I move my hand over several characters, stopping on one that lays to the left of his heart.

“And this one?” I ask.

“‘Breath of God.’”

I trace the word. Beneath my touch, Pestilence’s skin pebbles.

“What language is this?” I ask.

“A holy one.” His eyes are on me, tracking my movements.

If I had a little more courage, my hand would drop lower, where another band of characters ring his hips, the lowest of the symbols dipping well beneath his towel.

But alas, my courage fails me.

“Can you speak it?” I ask.

His hand presses over mine once more, holding my palm against his heart. “Sara, it is my native tongue.”

I stare at the writing wondrously. I feel a presence here in this dark room. It presses in close. I can see it in the back of the horseman’s steady gaze, and I can feel it in the very beat of his heart.

My gaze lifts to his. “Say something for me.”

His eyes shine. “I cannot,” he says gently. “To speak the holy language is to press divine will upon the world.”

I pull my hand away, removing myself from him. “Isn’t that what you’re already doing?” How else am I supposed to interpret Pestilence riding across the world and spreading his plague?

He leans forward, looking lupine and feral as he comes in close. “What is spoken cannot be unheard. It is not for mortal ears. But … I am not above sharing a word or two with you.”

I forget to breathe as his own breath fans against my cheeks, his lips—and the rest of his nearly unclad body—so very, very close.