Pestilence (The Four Horsemen #1)(39)

At the press of my fingers, Pestilence’s eyes flutter open, focusing on me.

“What are you doing?” he asks. There’s both confusion and suspicion written all over his features.

Aside from poking him?

“I’m taking care of you.”

The moment I speak the words, it really registers. I’m helping the horseman recover. Helping him, when only a short while ago I was the person pulling the trigger. I can hardly believe it.

The shock on his face must mirror my own.

He catches my hand, his eyes burning bright as he looks at me. “I’m fine, Sara.”

He doesn’t want my help. Didn’t see that one coming.

“No, you’re not. You got plugged with a small army’s worth of ammunition.”

He begins to sit up. “I’ve endured worse.”

Yeah, I know. I was there. Being burned alive has got to top the “Shitty Situations of the Year” list.

I head back to Trixie and, after flipping on a switch and watching the overhead light sputter to life, I begin rummaging through the horseman’s saddlebags. As I do so, one of the bullets drops out of his mount’s side, landing on the floor with a heavy clink. Poor horsie.

Eventually my hand wraps around a bottle of Red Label I lifted from one of our stops. It takes a little longer to find the roll of gauze, but once I do, I return to the couch where the horseman is sprawled out.

Pestilence’s eyes drop to the items in my hands.

“Those are yours,” he says pointedly, like he doesn’t want a thing to do with them.

Mayhap Pestilence is more afraid of my kindness than even I am of his.

“Well, tonight I feel like sharing,” I say, unraveling the gauze as I move back to him.

He begins to push himself up, but I don’t let him get very far. Grabbing his shoulder, I force him back down to the couch.

“I will heal on my own,” he insists, scowling first at the gauze, then the liquor that rest on the nearby coffee table.

“Yeah, you will.” I grab a chair from the kitchen and drag it over.

I sit down on the chair in front of him and unscrew the cap of the whiskey, my eyes trained on his wounds.

“I don’t agree with this,” he says, but he’s no longer trying to flee. In fact, if I didn’t know better, I’d say that I see curiosity sparkling in Pestilence’s eyes.

No one’s ever tended to him.

“I didn’t ask whether you did,” I say, grabbing the roll of gauze and pouring some of the whiskey onto it.

“Vexing woman.”

I lift my brows and begrudgingly nod in agreement. I can totally be vexing.

“Don’t you want me to suffer?” he asks ruefully, tracking each of my movements.

“I’ve never wanted you to suffer,” I say, “Not even when I shot you down.”

I move the alcohol-soaked linen to the first of his wounds.

He hisses as it comes in contact with his exposed flesh. “You lie, human. This is suffering.”

He gets shot up a dozen times, and yet he complains about a little alcohol in his wounds?

“This is disinfectant.”

“I can clean my wounds well enough without your crude methods.”

Oh, that’s right.

“Fine.” I stand up and go to the kitchen, rifling through the cupboards until I find two glasses. I bring them back. Pouring a shot into one of them, I hand the glass to him.

He takes it, giving the liquor a tentative whiff before wincing.

“To help with the pain,” I explain.

“What does it matter?” he says, lowering his glass. “It will be over with eventually.”

“Oh, for the love of—” I pour myself a double shot and take a deep swallow of it. I top my drink off, then set the whiskey aside.

Pestilence absolutely sucks at playing patient.

I grab the roll of gauze once more, intending to at least bandage his wounds. But as I reach out for him, he catches my wrist. “Sara,” he says softly, “cease this. I appreciate the gesture, but it is in vain.”

As he speaks, a bullet at his throat oozes out of the hole it burrowed in him.

So freaky.

My eyes meet his. “Alright.” Not going to twist his arm trying to help him if he doesn’t want it.

I get up, grabbing the bottle of Red Label and my glass.

I’m halfway out of the living room when he calls out, “Where are you going?”

“To take a bath.” Need some goddamn alone time.

I close my eyes and lean back against the tub, draping my arms over the rim and idly swirling my glass of whiskey. I can almost forget my life has gone to complete and utter cow shit.

Down the hall I hear the thump and scrape of Pestilence as he makes his way closer to me. A minute later the door creaks open. I crack my eyes just enough to see him limp into the bathroom, holding his midsection gingerly, his still-full glass of whiskey in his hands.

“I want to be alone,” I say, closing my eyes once more. I don’t bother covering myself. He’s already seen me naked. More than once. Also, I doubt he’s feeling all that lusty when he’s barely holding himself together.

“Human, you have clearly forgotten that you’re my prisoner.”

Once, I was—and he had to stand guard over me to make sure I didn’t bolt. But I don’t know if I am any longer. That should bother me, but right now I have no more fucks to give.