Page 50 of Famine
Chapter 16
I stare after the now crying teenager, my stomach churning. The entire time I feel Famine’s eyes on me.
Don’t do this,I want to tell him. Don’t use that girl the way men have used me. If it’s sex you’re after, I’ll give it to you. If it’s resistance you want—trust me, I’ll make sure you know how unenthusiastic I am.
I don’t say any of those things. I have a prickly, uncomfortable feeling that the horseman would happily acquiesce and kill the girl instead. The true question is why Famine did decide to keep her around to sleep with when he’s been pretty aggressively against sex with me.
Not a minute after his daughter is carted away, Famine’s men lead the father through the house and out the back door.
“Where are you taking me? Where are we—let me go—” A door opens, then shuts, cutting off the older man’s words.
It doesn’t take much longer for his cries to start up. I pinch my eyes shut, willing away the sounds.
I made a mistake hunting down Famine. A terrible, terrible mistake. I thought I could exact my vengeance—or die. But neither of those options have happened.
“Now, now, little flower,” the horseman says, his voice low and lethal, “closing your eyes won’t make it any less real.”
“If you let me go, I’ll leave you alone,” I whisper.
I don’t want to listen to all this suffering. I don’t want to see it either.
“Will you now?” the Reaper says. I hear his footfalls as he comes up to me. “Just when you started growing on me, too,” he whispers against my ear, his breath warm.
My eyes snap open. The horseman stands unnervingly close, and as I watch him, he runs a finger down my bare arm, the touch drawing out goosebumps. He stares at my puckered flesh.
What thefuckis he doing?
A guard clears his throat, breaking whatever weirdthingcame over the horseman.
Another person is ushered in, and Famine shifts his attention to them, returning to his chair.
I know the Reaper brought me out here to make me uncomfortable; he seems to relish his cruelty. Two can play that game.
I might be frightened by the horseman, I might even be cowardly in the face of death, but damnit, I have been and always will be aboldmotherfucking bitch.
Just as a man approaches Famine, I casually leave my post and sit myself down on Famine’s legs like this is just something I do. And it is. I often sat myself down on men’s laps in the tavern next to The Painted Angel, and plenty of those men were only slightly less revolting than Famine.
Beneath my ass, the Reaper tenses.
“What are you doing?” he hisses, too low for anyone else to hear.
I ignore the way my heart pounds or the fact that this monster has rejected me several times over. I shake my hair out, the long, wavy locks brushing against his face.
“Making myself comfortable,” I say.
I adjust myself on his lap, the manacles jangling, and I make sure to cause a little extra friction.
Much to my delight, he sucks in a breath.
I can’t fight Famine, or appeal to his sensibilities, but Icandrive him mad. I’m actually pretty good at that.
The horseman grabs me by the waist. He’s about to push me off, I can feel it, but for whatever reason he decides at the last minute to keep me pinned in place, his fingers digging into my skin.
The man waiting in the foyer now approaches us, fear—and perhaps a little hope—visible on his face. His clothes are tattered and patched up, and the sandals he wears look worn thin. Whoever he is, he doesn’t have much, yet still he came here intent on giving the Reaper something.
When he gets close to us, the man reaches into his pocket and pulls out several rings, a dainty gold bracelet, and a necklace with the image of Our Lady of Aparecida dangling from it. The man bows his head and kneels, his hand outstretched.
“What is this?” Famine asks, disdain dripping from his voice.
