Page 141 of War

I cover what I can of myself.

The horseman doesn’t look up from where he’s washing me. “Get out.”

“But you haven’t raised the dead—”

Awareness sharpens in War’s eyes. They lift from my skin, meeting mine once more. The horseman is a man of habit, and his most consistent habit is that at the end of every battle he raises his dead.

I think of those few birds I released. How paltry my efforts were in the face of the horseman’s undead.

War starts to stand, pulling away from me, his expression turning serious, calculating. I got the barest glimpse of this new man, one who has heart and compassion. I’m not ready to lose him so soon.

I catch War’s hand.

“Please don’t.” It comes out as a whisper. “Please War. All those people who survived—please don’t kill them.” I squeeze his hand tightly.

He stares down at me, searching my face.

Beyond him, the soldier shifts a bit impatiently at the entrance.

War has no reason to listen to me now. I have nothing new and compelling to tell him that I haven’t already tried to, and I have nothing else to offer him that I haven’t already offered.

But something about today has changed the horseman. I see it even now as he stares at me.

“It will make no difference in the end,” he says, his eyes so brilliantly alive.

I give him a meaningful look. “It will make a difference to me.”

This is how you get me to love you, I told him in Arish. I have a feeling he’s remembering those words right now.

The horseman stares at me some more, then says over my shoulder to the man waiting, “Call the men in. Tonight, the dead will not rise.”

The dead will not rise.

I can hear my heart thundering.

The soldier leaves, and we’re alone again.

I try to take in a deep breath, but I’m breathless.

I thought it was an easy promise to make, telling War that mercy was the key to my love. I hadn’t realized there was any truth to those words.

Not until this moment.

I stand, the water sloughing off of me. War gazes at my body, his eyes hungry. He’s still holding himself in check, but he was right earlier—he has limited willpower. And right now, Iamgoing to break it.

I step out of the tub and into the horseman’s arms, plastering my wet body against his. Immediately, his hand comes around my waist, the washcloth falling, forgotten, to the ground.

He’s still kneeling, and for once I’m taller than him. His hands skim either side of my waist, and he dips his head, pressing a kiss to my stomach.

I run my fingers through the horseman’s hair and tilt his head back, forcing him to look at me. I spend only a moment glancing down at War’s lips—and then I kiss him.

The instant our mouths meet, I melt. He’s decadent, sinful, saintly.

He breaks away from the kiss. “What have you done to me?” he whispers. “What have you done? Wife, wife, wife,” he murmurs against my skin, his lips moving lower. Down my throat and across my collarbones. He trails his mouth over my chest wound, which has now scabbed over, thanks to him. After a minute, his mouth continues on to my breasts.

His hands tighten as he presses my arched back deeper into him. War’s mouth closes over a nipple, and a moan slips from my lips. I’ve never been this way with other men. I’ve never been able to let my guard down so much.

“Ve lethohivaš,” he says.

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