Page 37 of War

“Oh, that’s rich of you to say.”

His eyes meet mine, and my breath catches. God is he annoyingly attractive. And the longer I stare at him, the more I notice every single inconvenient detail that makes him that way—like the fullness of his lips and his tiger’s eye irises, and the sharp, high cheekbones that make him look so exotic.

“You should’ve said something about the sunburn,” he says.

“I didn’t think you’d care.”

He studies me. “I do.”

“Why?” I say.

“We’ve been over this,” he responds.

Because I’m his wife, he means.

We stare at each other for a little longer.

After a moment I take a deep breath and tear my gaze away. “I feel better.”

I really do. Now that I’ve sat down, I don’t feel so feverish anymore, and I swear my skin doesn’t throb nearly so much as it did a few minutes ago.

Now that I’ve had enough time to regroup, I want the horseman to stop touching me. A few kind words, a gentle touch, and I’ll start to believe he’s not a heinous demon spawn.

War drops his hand and gets up, heading over to his horse, who tosses his head about as his master approaches.

“Steady, Deimos,” he says to his steed, placing a hand on the beast’s dark red coat.

Deimos? He’s actually named his horse?

He reaches into the creature’s saddle bags, withdrawing water and food. The horseman heads back over to me and hands the items over to me.

I take them from War and give him a brief smile. His eyes linger on my mouth for just a moment, then he moves away again to deal with the horses—or maybe to unpack.

I take in his form. He’s been oddly kind to me today, and I have to remind myself that I’ve seen him cut down many, many people—I was almost one of them. I can’t let his concern and a few gentle touches overshadow that.

“Do you feel anything?” I call out to him. “When you kill?”

It’s time for my hourly reminder that War is a bad dude.

He pauses, his back to me. “Yes.”

I wait for him to say more. The silence stretches out.

“I feel bloodlust and excitement, and a deep satisfaction at a job well done.” The horseman says this like he’s talking about something mundane, like the weather and not the wholesale slaughter of innocents.

He turns to face me. “I am yours and you are mine, Miriam—”

I quake at those words.

“—but I am not like you, and you shouldneverforget that.”

Chapter 9

The stars twinkleabove us when War lays out our pallets. One is just a mat and a thin quilt, but the one he’s working on now is lavished with blankets.

Which one is his, and which one is mine? I sort of hate the fact that he made them so obviously unequal. If he takes the pimped out pallet, I’m going to know that on top of being depraved, the horseman is also kind of a dick. But if he gives that one to me …

I squirm a little uncomfortably at the possibility. I don’t like excessive kindness; it makes me feel like I owe someone something in return. And I really don’t want to think about what War might think I owe him.