War (The Four Horsemen, #2)(91)

War pulls me back down, luring me back to him with his heated kisses. “Not so quick, my wife.” He brushes my dark hair aside so that he can kiss the nape of my neck.

“But I’m dirty,” I protest, desperate to put a little distance between us.

“Nothing about what we did was dirty,” War says, a bit too fervently. “And I like having myself all over you.”

That’s exactly what I’m having an issue with.

“It is going to be different now,” he adds.

I swallow. Uh oh.

“Um, what do you mean?” I say carefully, keeping my tone light.

“You are mine wholly and completely—and I am yours. For now and always it will be this way.”

Oh dear God. That sounded a lot like a vow to me.

What have I done?





Chapter 40


Despite my misgivings, we spend the rest of the afternoon and evening in War’s bed, getting up only to eat and drink.

I don’t know if he’s aware of my unease, but if he is, he couldn’t have devised a better strategy for distracting me from it. I might be troubled by War’s feelings for me, but I have zero problems with how he makes love.

Not even nighttime seems to quench whatever thirst drives the horseman. War wakes me up twice more for sex.

By the time morning sunlight is streaming through our tent, War’s hand has moved its way down to my clit for the millionth time. He strokes it, and I moan softly in protest. My body feels like it’s been wrung of every last orgasm.

Despite that, I feel myself slicken against his hand. Who would’ve thought I’d have another round in me?

“Cannot keep my hands off of you,” War says, moving his other palm to my breast. Against my better judgment, I arch into his touch.

“So receptive,” he murmurs.

Something I seriously did not take into account earlier—all this skin on skin action has almost completely healed me. And my libido is thanking War for it.

The horseman rolls on top of me. I tilt my pelvis up, and for the thousandth time in the last twenty four hours, my horseman slides inside me.

Much, much later I manage to actually pull myself out of bed and clean myself up as best I can (much to War’s disappointment). Before I can get reeled back in for more sex, I dress and slip outside.

I nearly scream the moment I do so.

The living dead surround War’s quarters.

They stand idly around the tent, weapons held at the ready. Most of them rock slightly, their decomposing features slack. And yet, despite the fact that their eyes are unfocused and their heads don’t turn at the sound of my footsteps, there’s an awareness to them.

So that explains the smell.

I cup my hand over my nose. The stench is much worse out here, and the hot day is doing nothing to help it.

A moment later, War steps out next to me, a smile clinging to his lips. One look at him and the entire camp will know that the horseman got himself some ass last night.

Awesome.

“What is this?” I ask, my gaze sweeping over the corpses.

“They’re for your protection.” His smile slips away. “It seems I cannot trust even my own men to keep you safe.”

Now that my gaze sweeps over my surroundings, I finally notice that the phobos riders that used to stand guard are indeed gone.

In their place are armed zombies, their blades holstered at their sides.

“This really isn’t necessary,” I state, covering my nose again. Ugh, I can taste the rot on my tongue.

“On the contrary, wife, now it’s more important than ever.” Even as War says it, his zombies back away, giving me space to breathe. “I warned you already: I won’t lose you.”

The horseman cups my face, his gaze searching mine. “Death always comes between humans. I won’t let it happen to us.”

I see his age then, in his eyes. Thousands upon thousands of years of wars. So many lives and so many deaths. It’s moments like these when I remember that he was never born and he can never die.

I sense that all those years of battle have worn War down. That beneath his violence, he’s held onto a spark of something that doesn’t seem very War-like: peace, connection, love. I see that longing in his eyes.

And now I’ve begun to make the mistake I was never supposed to make. I’ve started to forget that War is a jackal set on devouring the world. I’ve started to see him as someone worth caring about.

As someone I do care about.

The next week is a blur of touching and sex. War extends our time at camp simply so that he can relegate some days to staying in bed and nothing else. And there’s no more mention of raising the dead—my undead guards aside.

And if I thought this brief, sex-filled blip would end the moment we packed up camp, I thought wrong. War stops several times on the road so that he can fit himself inside me, and the nights during our travels are largely sleepless.

Even when we make camp in the next settlement, it doesn’t end. He seems more ravenous for me than ever.

War fucks like he fights. He’s brutal, deliberate, and full of raw masculine energy. He takes me like it’s the one thing he was made for, like this is the last time he’ll ever be in me. Like he’s reaching, reaching, reaching for something he can’t quite grasp.

I was right the first time I felt him in me; he’s ruined me. Because the craze isn’t one-sided. If it were, I’d relish the fact that at any moment I could just walk away and be alright. But I don’t think I could. Not at this point. So instead, I now have to grapple with the fact that I’m enamored by a man who has committed atrocities.