War (The Four Horsemen, #2)(20)

Not like I have much of a choice. I nod anyway.

“Follow me.”

He rides off, his horse racing to the front of the line that’s formed. People cheer as he passes them by, like he’s their savior rather than some supernatural menace. I watch him for several seconds before I coax Thunder to follow the horseman.

People don’t cheer when I ride by, but I feel their curious, questioning gazes.

Who is she?

Why is she following War?

I make my way to the front of the procession, and then past it altogether.

There, War waits. His eyes seem to dance as I get closer to him. Once I come to his side, he wordlessly begins to ride, setting the pace for us.

No hi, no how are you? Just a quiet confidence that I’ll fall into line.

I glance back at the horde, which is beginning to move. It’s clear from their pace that they’re not going to catch up to us. Never have I wanted such a faithless mass of people to save me as I do now.

They follow behind us for half a kilometer before the horseman and I pass a bend in the road, and then the two of us are alone.

The silence swarms in. I wait for War to break it—surely he’s going to break it—but he just rides on, those dangerous eyes of his fixed on the road ahead.

I clear my throat. “Why did you want me to ride next to you?” I ask, finally breaking the silence.

“You’re my wife.”

I’m not your wife, I want to insist. Not in any way that matters.

The words are right there on the tip of my tongue, but then I study War’s profile, and there’s something so … certain about the way he handles me. I take him in for a bit longer, from his dark, shoulder-length hair to his curving lips and sharp jaw.

“Why do you think I’m your wife?” I say.

War’s eyes flick to just beneath my chin.

“I don’t ‘think’ it,” he says. “I know it.”

Chills. There it is, that certainty. You’d think that if I was supposed to make a husband out of War, I’d know it too.

“If I’m your wife, why don’t I sleep in the same tent as you?” I say. “And why don’t—” I stop myself before I can say more.

The horseman glances at me. Now I’ve caught his interest.

“Go on,” he says. “Tell me, Miriam, all about the rest.”

I don’t.

“Why don’t I fuck you raw and feast on your pussy and keep you chained to my bed like a proper husband?” he finishes for me.

Chained to the bed like a proper husband?

I glance over at him. “Who the hell educated you on marriage?”

Seriously, what the fuck?

Forget God. This dude has to be a demon.

War takes one look at my face and laughs. “Is that not what proper husbands do?”

I have no clue if he’s actually kidding.

Holy fucking balls.

“Who says I’m not already married?” I don’t know why I say it. It’s certainly not true.

For a moment, War doesn’t react. Then, ever so calmly, he glances over.

“Are you?” he asks softly. “Do you have a husband, Miriam?”

His voice, those frightening eyes … it sends a chill down my spine, and I remember all over again that this isn’t a man; War is some preternatural creature who kills without remorse.

“No.” I couldn’t lie under that gaze even if I wanted to.

War nods. “That’s fortunate for you—and for him.”

Another chill.

I suddenly have no doubt that if I were married, this horseman wouldn’t think twice about ending it. I sway unsteadily in my saddle at the thought.

War is most definitely a demon.

It’s quiet for a few moments, then while he takes in our surroundings, War asks, “Do you have any family?”

“Did.” I have to force the word out. “But then you already knew that, didn’t you?” The horseman had been inside my flat—or at least I assume he was the one who went there to retrieve my tools. He would’ve seen the pictures of my parents and the childhood photos of me and my sister.

“What happened?” he asks.

You happened, you crazy bastard.

I glance down at the hamsa bracelet I wear. It’s nothing more than a single metal charm shoved onto a leather cord—the red string it was originally threaded around has long since broken. But that simple metal charm was the last gift my father gave me.

To protect me from harm.

“My father died the day you and the other horsemen arrived.” He’d been crossing the street, on his way back to the university after having lunch with another professor. The bus hit him and his colleague, and neither had survived.

“My mother and sister—”

The gunfire is deafening. The three of us run out of the city with nothing more than a backpack each. We’re the lucky ones. But then, that boat, that ominous boat—

“There was war in New Palestine long before you came around.” For as long as people have lived in this corner of the world, there’s been war. “We were escaping it …”

I can feel the horseman’s eyes on me, waiting for me to finish, but I can’t talk about the rest of it. This loss is fresher than the other one.