War (The Four Horsemen, #2)(23)

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 should never forget that.”





Chapter 9


The stars twinkle above 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.

At least he made two beds to begin with. I guess I should be glad we don’t have to share one.

After the horseman finishes, he comes over to where I sit by the fire we made a little while ago. He unfastens his armor piece by piece, setting them at his side. There’s something terribly confident and unhurried about his movements, like the world and everyone in it waits on him.

I am not like you.

I watch the horseman for a bit, trying not to focus on the fact that beneath all that armor is a wicked, wicked body.

“Your bed is the one with the blankets,” he says, unfastening his leather breastplate.

Damnit. Definitely going to feel like I owe him something now.

“Your accommodations seem a bit rough,” I say, nodding to his pallet.

War takes off the last bit of his armor. “I wouldn’t be a proper husband if I couldn’t make my wife comfortable.”

Him and this proper husband business.

I glance around. “Where are the chains you’re supposed to shackle me with?”

Pretty sure that was on the list of things a proper husband should have.

“Packed with the rest of my tent, unfortunately.” War says it so calmly that I think he may not be kidding—until a sly smile creeps up on his face.

“Next time then,” I say.

“I’ll hold you to that, wife.”

The two of us actually get along when I want us to. How troubling …

War removes his shirt, his markings glowing in the night. They give off eerie red glow.

Definitely a demon.

“Earlier,” he says, “you wanted to know why I don’t speak the languages of men when I can,” he says.

I had asked him about this when he invaded my tent several nights ago; I’m still curious about it, especially since he can speak perfect Hebrew with me.

“I speak every language that has ever existed. Even the ones that left no record. They have long faded from mortal memory, but not mine. Never mine.”

War is quiet for another moment. “What people don’t understand frightens them.”

How many times had I seen proof of that fear? Dozens, at least. And now War has weaponized that terror.

“So I speak dead languages, and I let the humans piece together from it what they will,” War finishes.

“But you don’t always speak in tongues,” I say. There have been a number of times where he spoke Hebrew or Arabic to me and his riders.

“I don’t. There are times when it serves me to be understood.”

“And when you speak in dead languages,” I say, “why is it that I can still understand you?”

War gives me a patient look. “I told you, you are my wife. You will know me and my heart, whether you want that or not.”

Unease coils low in my stomach.

Again, he says it with such certainty that I wonder …

But no. I refuse to believe I’m supposed to be with this monster.

“What do you want with me?” I ask, toeing a nearby pebble.

I sense rather than see War’s eyes draw down my face. “Isn’t it obvious?”

My gaze moves to his. “No.” It’s not.

From the few stories I’ve heard, this man has bagged himself a city’s worth of women—a big fucking city’s worth—and yet he hasn’t done more than touched my cheek and claimed that I’m his wife.