Page 166 of War

“Because if you have,” he continues, “then you’ll know that I’ll only stay dead for a little while,” he says. “And when I’m alive again …” he gives me a hard look, “my wrath, once stoked, isunquenchable.”

I can already feel that fury of his building behind his eyes, rising with every passing second.

My breath hitches and my pulse is like a drumbeat in my ears. His words have me hesitating. But I tighten my grip on the hilt and press the tip of his sword to his skin, my resolve redoubling on itself.

“Agree to it,” I demand. A drop of blood wells beneath the blade, marring that perfect skin of his.

There’s no going back.

“You would have mesurrender,” War says the word like it’s an insult.

“It’s what you asked of me.”

Those eyes of his look as black as the night right now. “No.”

That’s the second time this evening he’s saidno.

I knew I’d be working withno… and yet, still it’s a surprise. An unpleasant one. Maybe because now this means I have to follow through with my own plan. I wasn’t intending on that.

My gaze goes to his flesh, where the tip of his blade presses down on him. I’ll have to pierce this skin, I’ll have to cause the horseman pain.

Ican’t.

I’ve killed before—too many times have I taken lives. Lives of far better men than War. But now, at the thought of hurting this terrible immortal, my nausea rises.

I can’t, I can’t, I can’t.

Oh God, I think I might actually care for the monster.

My hands are shaking and I feel bile rising in the back of my throat.

The two of us are staring each other down, and I can tell War is waiting.

I have rope and a plan and fuck, I just need to do this.

I can’t—

I pull the sword away from War.

His eyes narrow, but he relaxes. “That was a good decision—”

—I can’t fall for this monster.

I lunge, driving the weapon back at the horseman, aiming for his throat.

War catches the sword by the blade, his hands wrapping around it. Blood wells beneath his fingers, slipping down his wrists and along the edges of his weapon.

If War feels any physical discomfort, he shows no signs of it.

Instead, it’s his eyes that are wounded.

“You would’ve hurt me—with my own blade.” That last part is tacked on like it’s insult to injury.

“It’s no less than you deserve.” I hate that my throat tightens as I say those words.

“No less than what I deserve,” he repeats, his tone inflectionless. “Is that what you think? You kiss me and fuck me and breathe my name like a prayer, but you believe I deserve death?”

I stare down at him unflinchingly. “You deserveworse.”

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