Pestilence (The Four Horsemen #1)(83)

And then the moment’s over.

Pestilence gathers me to him, and even after he’s no longer inside me, he still seems keen to keep me close.

His lips brush my forehead. “I like making love to you, Sara Burns.”

My stomach somersaults.

“I think it might be my new favorite thing in the world, next to this.” His hold briefly tightens.

I run my hand over his chest and down his abs, smiling softly. “You prefer this to my mad conversation skills?” I tease.

“Ask me again tomorrow when we’re in the saddle,” he says, grinning. “I’m sure my answer will change.”

That smile! The sight of it causes my breath to hitch.

“You’re just saying that to get on my good side.”

“Sara, you only have good sides. I’m saying this because each moment with you is my new favorite.”

You’d think I’d start to get used to his flattery, but like always, Pestilence’s words have a way of overwhelming me.

The two of us are quiet for a while, and I’m blissfully happy simply laying against him, enjoying how his hand lazily strokes my back.

But the longer I lay there, the more worrisome my thoughts become. This morning bubbles back up, even more gruesome now that Pestilence is in my arms and I can feel the weight of my emotions pressing in from all sides.

These attacks will keep happening. I know it as certainly as I’m sure Pestilence does. I’m not sure why this is some sobering revelation now. I was, after all, one of those people who tried to take him out. Of course it’s going to keep happening.

Humankind is desperate enough, stupid enough, courageous, self-sacrificing enough— Vindictive enough.

Because at the end of the day, even if humans can’t stop him, they can at the very least make him regret landing on God’s green earth.

They. The pronoun stops me cold. That last thought, I had said they, not we. I cut myself out of the group.

It’s another one of those moments, where the axis of my world tilts.

This whole time I’ve been so focused on how I’ve changed the horseman that I haven’t been paying attention to how he’s changed me.

“I’m not your prisoner,” I whisper.

Pestilence’s touch stills. He doesn’t respond.

“I’m not,” I insist. “Not anymore.” I’m drawing a line in the sand.

The edge of his mouth curves up. “Accept my proposal then.”

His mood is light—sex has a way of doing that—but I’m in a somber mood.

“I’m serious, Pestilence. Earlier today I stole a man’s gun and threatened him with it. I would’ve killed for you if I needed to.” That admission hurts coming out. “So no, I am not your prisoner,” I reiterate, “not any longer.”

For a long moment, he says nothing.

“Alright,” Pestilence finally agrees. “You’re no longer my prisoner.”

The truth is, I don’t think either of us knows what I am. I may no longer be his prisoner, but I doubt I could freely walk away from him either. At this point, I’m conceding to the realization that I don’t want to walk away, that I care for this terrible, wonderful being.

“What’ve you done to me?” I whisper, searching his face.

I set out to destroy this man, not to protect him.

“The same thing you have done to me, I imagine,” Pestilence says, brushing a lock of my hair aside. “You want your people to live, but you’re unwilling for me to be harmed. I want your people to die, but I cannot harm you. Each of us is trapped between our minds and our hearts.”

“It’s not the same,” I say, hoarsely. “You’re only saving me because God sent you a sign.”

Pestilence brushes a kiss against my temple. He’s shockingly good at cuddling.

“God might’ve interceded on your behalf once,” he says, “but He hasn’t needed to since. You are mine, and nothing—nothing—will change that.”





Chapter 42


We’re out by dawn, and it isn’t long after that Pestilence starts prodding me to recite another poem.

What are the chances that I’d find a man who likes poetry?

Since he liked “The Raven,” I dredge up “Lenore.”

“‘… Come! let the burial rite be read—the funeral song be sung! An anthem for the queenliest dead that ever died so young …’”

I don’t even get all the way through the end of the second stanza of Poe’s “Lenore” before I realize that Pestilence isn’t paying attention. And after he made such a fuss about hearing a poem, too.

“And so,” I continue, “the banging chick Lenore died and people apparently weren’t super sad because she was the shit and they hated her for that and now you want to kill everyone because we’re all A-holes of epic proportions.”

I pause, waiting for Pestilence to say something, anything, but he doesn’t.

I sigh.

The horseman strokes my belly absently with his thumb, lost in thought.

“Have you thought about children?” he says, rousing from his reverie.

The question takes me by surprise. “I’m sorry?”

“Children,” he repeats.