War (The Four Horsemen, #2)(43)

War stares at me for a long moment, then his eyes go to my lips. This time, I can feel the kiss about to happen. War is unconsciously leaning closer, and I am angling my face to better meet his mouth.

War is violent and uncompromising, but he’s not pure evil. He’s proving it right now while his touch still warms on my skin.

I’m leaning in, and he is too—

At the last moment, I turn my head away.

I can’t.

Forgiveness is one thing. This is another. I can’t cross that line.

I can’t.

I keep waiting for that horrible moment when War’s going to want his bed back, but it doesn’t come. Not that afternoon, when I drift in and out of sleep, and not that evening, once the sun has gone down and the camp has quieted.

War comes to me several times, either to quietly set food by my bed, or to place his hands on my skin and continue to heal my injuries, his ruby red tattoos glowing in the darkness.

“How are you still awake?” I mumble when I feel his hands on me for what has to be the fifth time tonight.

“I don’t need to sleep,” he says.

I crack my eyes open at that.

After a pause he adds. “My body doesn’t require it. It’s a human trait I’ve simply taken up over the months.”

At first, it doesn’t really compute. My brain is too foggy from sleep. But then it does.

“You really don’t need it?” I sit up a little at that.

“I can heal the injured and raise the dead, but you’re shocked by this?” he asks, a wry smile on his face.

Fair point.

I lay back down. “What else can you do?” I ask.

“You already know all my other secrets. I don’t need to eat or drink—though I do enjoy it. My body can heal itself. I can speak every language known or once known to man, though I prefer to speak in dead languages when giving orders. And I can raise the dead.”

It falls quiet, and I close my eyes again, letting him work. But I can’t slip back to sleep. Not when his hands are on me, and I almost kissed him earlier, and I’m still a bit confused that I even briefly wanted his lips on me so soon after I was attacked.

I open my eyes again.

“Why did they do it?” I ask softly. “Why did those men attack me?”

I gaze at the horseman, and maybe the darkness is playing tricks on me, but in the dim light of the tent, his eyes look so sad, so very, very sad. I’ve never noticed that before. I’ve been too stuck on how frightening he was. But now his expression doesn’t look so battle hungry, and that changes the horseman’s entire face.

“Men’s hearts are full of evil, wife,” he admits.

I don’t have it in me to disagree. I hate the horsemen—I do—but right now I think I might hate my own kind more. Were we always this way? This cruel? Or did the four devils that rode onto earth make us like this?

War’s hands leave my skin. “Sleep, Miriam. And don’t worry about those men or their motives. You will have your justice.”

That’s oddly foreboding.

With that, War retreats, and I’m left to drift off into uneasy sleep.

The next day, I wake up to a cold breakfast and a pile of my things laid out next to War’s pallet.

Oh, and no sign of the horseman.

Off making war, no doubt …

At least he feels more comfortable leaving me alone today than he did yesterday.

I grab the plate of food and pick at the breakfast, thinking that I have myself a pretty sweet deal: I’m being waited on hand and foot by one of the horsemen of the apocalypse, and he hasn’t asked for anything in return.

Yet.

I can hear my earlier warning to Zara ringing in my ears. I can only get away with so much for so long. That’s the way this world works.

Of course, that’s not nearly so distracting as the fact that now I’m starting to wonder what it would feel like to be with someone like War. Someone who’s more a force of nature than an actual man. And I’m not altogether put off by the idea …

After breakfast, I pick through my things. There’s my wood for arrow shafts, my shoes, my woodworking tools, my inherited coffee set, and most titillating of all, the tattered bodice ripper I was bequeathed.

There’s also a pile of new clothing sitting among my items, along with a note.

There’s a bath waiting for you. It might be cold by now. Enjoy anyway.

I glance up from the slip of paper, and immediately, my eyes land on the metal basin at the back of the room.

I have the oddest urge to cry. Most water is pumped from wells these days, so a bath is a production. Especially a warm one.

I glance back down at the note, running my thumb over the sure, sweeping grace of War’s writing. Just like everything else about him, there’s a commanding certainty to his penmanship; you’d think he’d been jotting down notes for decades.

Setting the paper aside, I grab the clothes and head over to the basin.

One of the things I’ve learned about myself since joining War’s army: baths are an anxiety-inducing experience. The sound of every passerby has me ready to leap out of the tub. Which is a shame, because the water—while not warm—still feels amazing.

God, I miss indoor plumbing. I miss it so, so much.

At least I get a chance to inspect my wounds. The bruises across my skin are fainter and smaller than they were yesterday. The cut on my lip is completely gone, and my chest doesn’t hurt so much when I breathe anymore.