Page 50 of War

War steps up to me, and I’m reminded of why he’s so goddamn frightening. He’s over two meters tall, and nearly every square centimeter of him is coated in blood.

“You are playing a dangerous game, wife,” he says, his voice pitched low.

I think it’s supposed to be a threat, but I feel that voice low in my belly, and I’m reminded all over again of the horseman’s kiss.

“I don’t consider life and death to be a game. Spare her.”

“And have her attempt to kill me again?” he says. “That’s madness, woman.”

As he says this, I hear a dull clink. I glance down just in time to see a bloody, spent bullet roll along the road.

That … came out of him.

Holy balls.

“What harm would it do? Spare her,” I urge again.

“You like her simply because she tried to kill me,” he says, giving me a look.

Maybe.

“She’s brave.”

He stares over my shoulder at the woman, a grimace on his face. “She’ll cause trouble.”

But he’s actually considering this.

I press my advantage. “Give her a useful task—make her cook things or manage stuff.”

The battle is still brewing around us, and every second that passes the odds of this woman surviving grow smaller and smaller.

War stares at her for an impossibly long time. His upper lip curls.

“This is a waste of my time,” he says. “For the sake of your soft heart, I will let her live—for now.”

He whistles to a nearby soldier and beckons him over. The man jogs to War’s side. Leaning in close, the horseman whispers something to the soldier. The man nods in response, then breaks away.

I glance behind me. The woman is still standing in the middle of the road, though at some point she procured a knife.

Why didn’t you run when you had the chance?I want to ask her.

She shifts her weight from foot to foot, her eyes going to me, then to War and the soldier. She has an angry, desperate look about her.

The man breaks away from War, striding over to the woman.

“What is he doing?” I ask War, alarmed.

The horseman’s upper lip curls. “Sparing her,” he says, a note of disgust in his voice.

The woman raises her weapon as the soldier comes in close, but the man easily knocks away the blade, grabbing her by the shoulder. As soon as the soldier touches her, she goes berserk, scratching and kicking and screaming.

Gritting his teeth, the soldier begins to explain himself to her, gesturing first to the horseman and me, and then to a nearby horse. Whatever the soldier is telling her, it’s causing her to slowly, reluctantly cooperate.

A minute later, he takes the woman to a nearby horse and helps her onto the saddle, murmuring quietly to her.

“Are you sure he’s not just going to slit her throat the moment we’re out of sight?” I ask War while I stare at the two of them. I don’t even know why I’m so invested in this. Maybe itissimply because the woman hurt War.

“No,” he responds as the soldier and the woman ride off, “I’m not. The hearts of men are fickle and cruel.”

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