Pestilence (The Four Horsemen #1)(43)

And now I’m staring at his mouth and that full upper lip that gives him a perpetually pouty look.

He has no idea how good looking he is. Scratch that—good looking is a term reserved for humans who are attractive, imperfections and all. This inhuman thing, with his angelic features, isn’t good looking, he’s blinding, breathtaking. He’s perfection incarnate. And isn’t that just cosmically unfair? He’s a harbinger of the apocalypse. He doesn’t need to be attractive, but he is.

His eyes continue to take in my lips. There’s something raw and powerful in his expression, like liquor has made him hunger for other forbidden things. Human things.

He moves his thumb over my lower lip again, and I feel that simple touch everywhere.

Lowering his hand, he leans in. I’m not sure he’s even aware that he’s doing it—moving towards the mouth he’s fixated on.

Over the course of our association, I’ve been close to Pestilence, but not like this.

Not like this.

He’s so close our breath is mingling.

My pulse hammers away at me until it’s all I can hear.

Tha-thump, tha-thump, tha-thump.

He’s going to kiss me.

That warm flush spreads out from my stomach.

Shouldn’t do this.

Can’t do it.

Won’t.

His hand slides to my neck, tilting my jaw up, his gaze still pinned to my lips.

Our mouths are so very close.

Just one taste, I reason. That’s not so bad, right? Just one taste. No one could blame me for being curious. This horseman is supposedly God’s justice and vengeance. How can I be doing anything wrong if I let His horseman touch me?

I half believe my insane musings. Right now, with the bourbon warming my insides and softening my resolve, I’ll bend just about any logic to let this happen.

Pestilence hesitates. Unlike me, I imagine he might be having one final moment to talk himself out of—rather than into—this.

In that one moment, I come to my senses.

My eyelids lower, and I stare at his lips.

“Please,” I whisper.

The hand on my neck presses into my skin, and then at once, it’s gone.

Spell’s broken.

“Please?” Pestilence pulls away to give me a look of disgust. “You say this to me now?” He runs a hand over his mouth and jaw, then looks around, like he’s waking from a dream.

He stands, and I can only stare up at him. I have nothing to say. No words to ameliorate the situation because I knowingly drove it here.

I begin to stand as well, but Pestilence places a hand on my shoulder to keep me in my seat, almost as though I were now the one pursuing him.

He sighs, suddenly looking every inch as exhausted as he should be, considering the day he had.

“It’s late, Sara,” he says. “You best get some sleep, we ride early tomorrow.”

With that he leaves me and the bourbon and this troubling emotion that I’m pretty sure is regret.

I know I should feel relieved—triumphant even. But, like the Good Book says, though the spirit may be willing, the flesh is, indeed, weak.





Chapter 23


Hangovers are the worst.

The next morning I force down the pancakes I made, hating that I can hardly enjoy them over my nausea.

This is why I don’t drink regularly.

Well, that and the fact that I can only afford moonshine most of the time. You don’t even need to get drunk on that sour piss to get a hangover.

I pet Pestilence’s horse, who spent the night inside and who’s now standing in the kitchen, snuffling the pancakes like he might like a taste.

Abandoning the pancakes, I stand and focus my attention on the horseman’s mount.

I run a hand down the steed’s neck. “You know, beneath your hardened exterior is just a woman who wants love and acceptance,” I say to Trixie.

“My steed is a man.” Pestilence says as he enters the room.

I tense at his voice. This is the first time today the two of us have shared the same space.

He comes up next to me to place a cursory hand on the horse, and damn my body but I am aware of every inch of him.

“Don’t listen to him, Trixie,” I say to the horse, ignoring the man next to me.

“You named him?” Pestilence says incredulously.

He won’t look at me. I mean, I won’t look at him either, but he was the one who walked away from me last night, so …

I’m not looking at him first.

Apparently hangovers make me childish.

I pet Trixie’s white fur. It’s such a pure color, like fallen snow. “He needed a name.”

“‘Tricksy’?” Disapproval drips from Pestilence’s voice. “My steed isn’t tricksy. He’s a noble, loyal beast.”

That … is not the reason I named his pet Trixie.

“You don’t get to judge how I name him,” I say, “when you won’t name him at all.”

The horseman rotates to me, and sweet baby angels, just the feel of his gaze is flipping my stomach.

I finally gather up the courage to look at Pestilence. He’s back in his full regalia, his black clothes whole and unstained once more. His armor is now smooth and unblemished. His bow and quiver are at his back, the latter full of arrows when I was sure that yesterday it was near empty. It’s a neat trick how more than just his body can piece itself back together. Neat—and eerie.