Page 70 of War

It falls quiet, and I close my eyes again, letting him work. But I can’t slip back to sleep. Not when his hands are on me, and I almost kissed him earlier, and I’m still a bit confused that I even briefly wanted his lips on me so soon after I was attacked.

I open my eyes again.

“Why did they do it?” I ask softly. “Why did those men attack me?”

I gaze at the horseman, and maybe the darkness is playing tricks on me, but in the dim light of the tent, his eyes look so sad, so very, very sad. I’ve never noticed that before. I’ve been too stuck on how frightening he was. But now his expression doesn’t look so battle hungry, and that changes the horseman’s entire face.

“Men’s hearts are full of evil, wife,” he admits.

I don’t have it in me to disagree. I hate the horsemen—Ido—but right now I think I might hate my own kind more. Were we always this way? This cruel? Or did the four devils that rode onto earth make us like this?

War’s hands leave my skin. “Sleep, Miriam. And don’t worry about those men or their motives. You will have your justice.”

That’s oddly foreboding.

With that, War retreats, and I’m left to drift off into uneasy sleep.

The next day, I wake up to a cold breakfast and a pile of my things laid out next to War’s pallet.

Oh, and no sign of the horseman.

Off making war, no doubt …

At least he feels more comfortable leaving me alone today than he did yesterday.

I grab the plate of food and pick at the breakfast, thinking that I have myself a pretty sweet deal: I’m being waited on hand and foot by one of the horsemen of the apocalypse, and he hasn’t asked for anything in return.

Yet.

I can hear my earlier warning to Zara ringing in my ears. I can only get away with so much for so long. That’s the way this world works.

Of course, that’s not nearly so distracting as the fact that now I’m starting to wonder what it would feel like to be with someone like War. Someone who’s more a force of nature than an actual man. And I’m not altogether put off by the idea …

After breakfast, I pick through my things. There’s my wood for arrow shafts, my shoes, my woodworking tools, my inherited coffee set, and most titillating of all, the tattered bodice ripper I was bequeathed.

There’s also a pile of new clothing sitting among my items, along with a note.

There’s a bath waiting for you. It might be cold by now. Enjoy anyway.

I glance up from the slip of paper, and immediately, my eyes land on the metal basin at the back of the room.

I have the oddest urge to cry. Most water is pumped from wells these days, so a bath is a production. Especially a warm one.

I glance back down at the note, running my thumb over the sure, sweeping grace of War’s writing. Just like everything else about him, there’s a commanding certainty to his penmanship; you’d think he’d been jotting down notes for decades.

Setting the paper aside, I grab the clothes and head over to the basin.

One of thethings I’ve learned about myself since joining War’s army: baths are an anxiety-inducing experience. The sound of every passerby has me ready to leap out of the tub. Which is a shame, because the water—while not warm—still feels amazing.

God, I miss indoor plumbing. I miss it so, so much.

At least I get a chance to inspect my wounds. The bruises across my skin are fainter and smaller than they were yesterday. The cut on my lip is completely gone, and my chest doesn’t hurt so much when I breathe anymore.

All that being said, I feel tired and weak, like I’ve been remade in the last two days—which isn’t terribly far from the truth. So in spite of the conversations that drift by and have me tensing in the tub, I let myself linger in the water for a while.

Also, I just really miss good soaks. Sponge baths aren’t the same.

I’m just about to get out when I hear someone walking towards the tent. I hold my breath, waiting for them to pass by.

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