Page 89 of War

Just like the last time this happened, I’ve left my pallet, my body gravitating towards the horseman’s like a magnet.

I lift my head a little and see that at least this morning, War has left his own pallet as well, the two of us meeting somewhere in the middle.

That only makes me feel a smidgen better.

My eyes move to the horseman. He’s still asleep, his long lashes fanned out against his cheeks. I feel my skin heat even as I slowly allow myself to settle back into him.

Is it wrong to reimagine this situation? Because I want to. So badly.

The longer I’m pressed to him, the more my body awakes to his. I’m aware that he’s made of muscle and perhaps nothing else, and that all of that muscle feels so verygoodagainst me. There’s also a perverse part of me that enjoys feeling small and protected right here in the cocoon of his arms. It’s been a long time since I’ve felt protected.

My gaze moves to his chest, where his pectorals are wrapped in those glowing tattoos. Before I can think better of it, I lift a hand and trace one. Beneath my touch, the horseman’s skin pebbles.

War’s arm tightens on me, and he wakes with a slow, devil-may-care grin. I wonder how many more of those I’ll get today. I’m horrified to realize that I’ve started to anticipate those smiles. The horseman doesn’t do much smiling, so each one I win gives me perverse pleasure. Emphasis onperverse.

“Wife, you’re making a habit of finding your way into my arms.”

A habit that, judging from his face, he’s going to do nothing to deter.

“You met me in the middle,” I say a little defensively because I’m feeling an awful lot like I’m pursuing him right now when it’s been the other way around.

War gives me another sleepy smile, which heats my core.

“How could I not?” he says. “In sleep I don’t have nearly so much restraint.”

He still hasn’t let me go, and I haven’t tried to move out of his arms. I think neither one of us is all that eager to end this moment.

The horseman reaches out and traces the scar at the base of my throat. “How did you get this?”

The question shatters my mood.

The explosion roars through my ears, the force of it knocking me into the water.

Darkness. Nothing. Then—

I gasp in a breath. There’s water and fire and … and … and God the pain—the pain, the pain, the pain.

I squeeze my eyes shut against the memory. When I open them, it’s carefully tucked away again.

“Why does it matter?” I ask.

War’s deep eyes rise to mine. “It matters.”

I frown. “I was in an accident. I have other scars in other places.”

This, of course, is the wrong thing to say. War’s eyes grow avid; he looks like he wants to peel my clothes away and read my skin like it’s a roadmap.

His gaze moves up the column of my throat. Past my mouth and nose. I lock eyes with him, and neither of us looks away. I can see those flecks of gold in his irises. I can even see that right now, his eyes have been stripped of violence.

What’s left in them is pure desire.

My breathing speeds up and my core begins to throb, and I want him, I want him, I want him. I thought sleeping it off would change things, but it hasn’t.

His face is so close. Too close.

It’s me that closes the distance between us. Me who presses my lips to his. This is pure, unadulterated impulse.

So much for not pursuing him …