War (The Four Horsemen, #2)(38)

There’s a pause. Then Zara says, “That’s not really what I’m asking.”

I know. What she wants to know is why would War listen to me at all.

I bring my drink to my lips and swallow almost all of it, wincing at the taste.

Just tell her.

“He thinks I’m his wife.”

More silence.

“What is that supposed to mean?” Zara eventually says.

“I think it might eventually mean”—my mouth dries—“sex, but for now, it’s an empty title.”

I think of the times the horseman and I have kissed, and I am so conflicted. So, so conflicted.

Zara’s silent, undoubtedly because I’m making no sense. One should either be married or not married, having sex or not having sex. Anything else deserves a larger explanation.

One that I’m not really ready to give, partially because I don’t understand the situation much myself.

“So you have some sway over him,” Zara eventually says.

Sway?

I mull that over. “Maybe for isolated incidents—like sparing your life—but no, he’s pretty unbending when it comes to killing us all off.”

“Have you tried to convince him to stop?”

I give Zara a look that I’m sure she can’t see in the darkness. “Of course I’ve tried.”

It’s not good enough, that annoying little voice says in my head. Try again. And again. And try harder.

Zara exhales. “Why is he doing this?”

“Because his god told him to, or some bullshit like that.”

“You don’t believe in his God?” she asks, sounding surprised.

My eyes move to Zara’s headscarf. “Do you?” I ask.

We’re both quiet.

Like I said, it’s all so very complicated.





Chapter 17


That night it takes longer than usual to fall asleep. Between the battle today, the revelation that War can raise the dead, and the exciting possibility that I might’ve actually made a friend in Zara, my brain won’t shut off.

It doesn’t help that following the camp’s festivities this evening, people are loud and obnoxious and they won’t go to sleep. I can hear several groups of women talking about this or that.

Just go the fuck to bed and put us all out of our misery.

Eventually, the voices do quiet down and I slip off to sleep.

I feel like I’ve only been asleep for an instant when I wake to a tingling sensation on the back of my neck that something isn’t right.

Rule Four of my survival guide: listen to your instincts. I’ve lived on the edge long enough to know they’re rarely wrong.

Reaching under my pallet, I grab War’s dagger. My eyes scour the darkness, searching for the horseman, sure that he’s the one responsible for waking me. But my little home is horseman-free.

I’m almost disappointed at the thought.

Outside my tent, I hear several male voices whispering.

This late at night, men shouldn’t be in this section of camp, especially after a day fighting and an evening drinking.

For a split second I think that maybe some woman brought them here, or they made plans to meet up with someone here.

I hear those voices again—there’s at least three of them—and they don’t sound confused, they sound devious.

Listen to your instincts.

I move to the back of the tent. The canvas wall is too taut to slip under, so I lift War’s dagger, pressing the tip to the sturdy material.

If I’m wrong about this, and I cut a hole in my tent for no reason, I’m going to feel like a fool.

Better a fool than anything else …

With that, I pierce the canvas. As quietly as I can, begin to saw through the coarse fabric, creating an opening.

I grit my teeth at the riiiiiiiip of material as I part the canvas.

Outside, the whispers have gone silent.

I bite my inner cheek so hard I taste blood.

Faster! Faster!

It’s the most agonizing sort of situation, trying to cut that tent as quickly and as quietly as possible. What sound I am making seems deafening to me.

Finally, the hole is big enough. Clutching my dagger in my fist, I plunge through the opening headfirst— Behind me, I hear the slap of my tent flaps being thrown open.

Dear God dear God dear God.

I claw my way forward, forcing my torso out of the tent.

A hand latches onto my leg. “She’s trying to escape!” one of the men whispers as loudly as he dares.

I let out a shriek, not bothering to stay quiet. Hopefully that’ll wake up the entire camp.

That hand drags me back inside my tent, and I feel more than see the group of men who have squeezed themselves inside.

Now I’m trapped in here with them.

I continue screaming like a banshee. Fuck if I’ll silently let this happen.

“Shut the fuck up, you stupid slut,” another male voice says.

I kick out, and I hear something crunch. One of my assailants cries out, releasing my ankle.

I scramble once more for the opening I made, screaming the entire time.

More hands catch my ankles and they drag me back in.

One of them flips me onto my back, and another set of hands rips open my shirt. This time, when the material tears, it sounds like a gunshot.