War (The Four Horsemen, #2)(40)

When his features sharpen, I see him give me a whisper of a smile. “You have a fighting spirit, wife, and I am pleased beyond measure by it, but you don’t need to battle me. You are safe now.”

Am I safe with a horseman looming above me?

My head hurts too much for me to decide one way or another.

I try to focus on him, but my eyelids are heavy and they keep closing.

I don’t want to sleep. I really, really don’t. But the pain has worn me out.

My eyelids settle shut and every last worry fades away.

The first thing I notice is the warm touch against my brow. By now I recognize that touch. The horseman’s hands are defter and kinder than those that attacked me last night.

War brushes my hair back, murmuring things too low for me to understand.

I sigh at the feel of his hands on my skin. There’s no more pain with the sensation; if anything, it’s oddly soothing at the moment.

In response to my sigh, his hand pauses, his fingers pressing into my flesh.

I don’t yet open my eyes. I’m not ready to deal with the fallout from last night. Already the aches and pains are resurfacing. I’m not sure I want to face my current situation.

But I’m not falling back to sleep, and I can only pretend for so long.

I open my eyes.

War sits next to where I lay, his thigh nearly pressed to my side. He stares down at me, his eyes looking light this close to me.

“You’re awake.” His gaze searches mine. “How do you feel?”

“Like shit,” I croak out.

My lips are split and swollen, a headache is starting to pound behind one of my eyes, my torso feels like one throbbing ache, and my throat is raw—though that last one was probably from being throttled by a zombie, not my would-be rapists.

This bitch just can’t catch a break.

War’s hand flexes against my skin, but he doesn’t move it away from where it rests against my forehead.

“How long have I been out?” I ask.

“Just for the evening.” Slowly, he begins to brush my hair back again with his fingers, watching me like he’s sure I’m going to push his hand away the moment I get the chance.

I think I was doing that a lot last night.

Now for the harder questions. “My injuries—how bad are they?” Damn, but it hurts to speak. My teeth feel loose and my jaw aches.

The horseman gets a dark look on his face. “They were … significant.”

Were?

“Can you tell me more than that?” I ask him softly. I’m scared to move and feel the pain ripple down my body.

A muscle in his jaw flexes. “Wife, I am used to breaking things, not repairing them. I cannot tell you precisely what injuries you sustained, only that there were many of them. Your body was swollen and bruised and broken when I took you from your tent.”

I shiver at the reminder.

Now the hardest question of all. “My attackers …” I’m supposed to say more—there’s a question I need to get out, but I can’t seem to voice it.

A look comes over War’s face, like he’s some wrathful god of old. “Captured, tortured, and left to suffer until their time of judgment.” His voice reverberates, the sound of it causing my flesh to chill.

If I took this situation any less personally, I’d almost feel bad for those men. But, I don’t, so let them fucking burn.

I push myself up then, groaning as I do so. Everything—and I mean ev-ery-thing—hurts like a bitch.

And it’s only once the sheets slip off my torso that I realize I’m still wearing my shirt from last night—my ruined shirt. It gapes open and nothing but the grace of God prevents my nipples from popping out to say hello.

War and I are now sitting side-by-side, me on a cushioned pallet, him on the ground next to it, and our shoulders and legs touch. I must be doing better than I was last night because even though I’m hurting, I’m still aware of every point of contact between us.

I force myself to note my surroundings.

Today, I’m back in War’s tent. He must have carried me here last night, after he rescued me.

Which means the pallet I’m sitting on … is War’s. My stomach drops. I was trying to avoid ending up in this very place.

I try to focus on that, to hold onto the overwhelmingly bad situation I’ve found myself in with the horseman, but all I can think about was that he stopped those men and spent the night tending to me, and I’m fucking grateful to him.

So fucking grateful.

I wasn’t when he spared my life in Jerusalem, nor was I very grateful when he stopped the zombie attacking me, but I now am.

Just then a soldier calls from outside the tent, “My Lord, there’s a matter with a new rider that needs—”

“It can wait,” War says.

My gaze flicks over him, lingering on the sensual curve of his mouth.

Why am I thinking about his mouth?

“You can go,” I say to him. “I’ll be fine.”

War glances at me, and I see his hesitation.

“Seriously. I’m not going to die—thanks to you,” I tack on.

The horseman’s eyes deepen at that. His lips part, and I think he might respond, but instead, his gaze moves over my face, pausing here and there, his eyes getting more and more violent.