Pestilence (The Four Horsemen #1)(47)

I worry my lower lip. The rain is beginning to fall in a steady patter, and I know it’s only going to get worse. No way am I going to sleep outside tonight. As it is, there aren’t nearly enough blankets.

I really am going to have to snuggle with the horseman. The idea makes me distinctly nervous, especially when I can still feel the memory of his kiss on my lips.

I cast a sidelong glance at the horseman. He crouches in front of our meager campfire, the wood hissing and sputtering as he tends to it.

Why isn’t he affected by this?

Feeling the weight of my gaze on him, he glances up at me, his blue eyes piercing. He straightens a little when he takes in my expression. “What is it, Sara?”

Sara. He says my name like it’s a piece of a prayer.

“Nothing,” I say, rubbing my arms, where beneath my layers of clothing, goosebumps pucker along my skin.

He notices the action, his brow furrowing. “It’s not nothing.” Pestilence stands, glancing around. “What are you frightened of?”

I’m not having this conversation. I’m not.

I brush my hair away from my face. “I just … thought I heard something.”

Pestilence frowns. “Anyone who tries to get close to us is doomed. You are safe, Sara.”

But I’m not. Not from him, and not from my own heart.





Chapter 25


I pull my coat closer as I stare at the sputtering flames between me and Pestilence. The night brought with it a biting chill that not even a halfway decent campfire could ward off.

And this is no halfway decent campfire.

The rain steadily falls, but it’s not yet bad enough to drive me into the Tent of Doom.

The last of our meal sits comfortably in my stomach.

Not our meal, I correct. Your meal.

Pestilence hadn’t been willing to eat any of the food we were carrying, nor to drink any of the water.

I do not need it, Sara, he said when I offered it to him. You do.

He may not have needed it, but his eyes still lingered on the food the same way they’d been coming back to my lips again and again.

He may not need these things, but he’s developed a taste for them.

I hold my tin mug tightly between my hands, the tea keeping the cold from my fingers.

Across the fire, Pestilence’s gaze is like the stroke of a lover. I can feel it as though it were soft fingers brushing along my bare skin.

My eyes move up to his.

The hazy smoke distorts the horseman’s features, but I can still make out his sharp jaw and wavy golden hair. One leg is sprawled out in front of him, the other drawn up to his chest.

If the cold is affecting him at all, he doesn’t let on.

He stares at me, the look in his eyes both familiar and strange. It’s the kind of look that has me ducking my head and tucking a strand of hair behind my ear, like I’m some coquettish thing. It’s the kind of look that reminds me that regardless of his intentions, Pestilence is still a man, and a damn good-looking one at that.

“What?” I ask, swirling my tea around and around in my dented mug.

It’s not fucking wine, Burns. You don’t need to aerate it.

“I don’t understand your question,” he says.

Of course he doesn’t.

“You’re staring at me,” I explain. “I want to know why.”

“Can I not stare at you without having to explain myself?”

“It’s rude to stare at someone.” I still won’t look at him.

“Are you offended?” he asks, curious.

I’m flattered. And that offends me.

“Unsettled,” I say. “I feel unsettled by it.”

“Why am I not surprised?” he mutters to himself. “You want me to understand your kind, and yet when I show any interest, you condemn my curiosity.”

I literally have nothing to say to that. I don’t even know whether he’s right or if he just strung enough pretty words together that he appears right.

Not going to psychoanalyze that one.

“Fine,” I say, taking a sip of my tea and meeting his gaze. “Look your fill.”

His eyes stare unwaveringly back at me. “I will.”

I’m about to look away because it does feel horribly weird to have someone openly appraising you, but then—fuck that. If he’s going to stare, then so am I.

I take him in, from the arched tips of his golden crown to his dark shirt and soft leather boots. My gaze shifts to his hands—he has oddly attractive hands for a man.

Of course he does, Sara. Everything about him is attractive. It’s you who’s only starting to notice the fine details.

Pestilence smiles as my eyes rove over him, and I swear he presses his shoulders back just a little at my inspection.

“Are you enjoying what you’re looking at?” I ask, even as I drink him in. The comment is supposed to be snarky, but it comes off more like bait for a compliment.

“Your form is oddly pleasing to me.”

Like just about everything else Pestilence says, his words bring out two opposing emotions. My blood heats, and yet … pleasing? A painting is pleasing. And oddly so?

A woman should not be oddly pleasing. She should be a ball-busting, skull-crushing, badass motherfucker who is impossible to forget.

A line forms between Pestilence’s brows. “I hadn’t expected that—to enjoy the sight of you—just as I hadn’t expected food to entice me, or your liquor to enthrall me.”