Page 130 of Famine

Once we’re inside, I push him towards the porcelain basin.

“Get in,” I say.

Famine stares at the bathtub like he’s never seen anything so distasteful in his life. “I don’t want to bathe.”

“My God. Just get in.”

He gives me a sullen look over his shoulder, but steps in—bloody armor and all.

It’s my turn to give him one a long-suffering sigh. “You need to undress first.”

The Reaper’s eyes flash. “This is ridiculous.” But even as he speaks, he begins to undress.

First he removes his boots; then, piece by piece, he unfastens his armor, his expression saying plainly that he hates all of this. And yet there’s no shyness or embarrassment when it comes to stripping. Not that he has anything to be embarrassed about …

He levels the same displeased look at me even as he pulls off his shirt and then drops his pants and whatever he wears beneath them, tossing the last of his clothes over the side of the tub.

I’m the one who has to school my features to keep my expression disinterested, becauseHoly Mother of God, even scowling at me, Famine is the most beautiful man I’ve seen in all my life. Every centimeter of him is sculpted muscle, his wide shoulders tapering down to a narrow waist and a cock that is somehow pretty, despite the fact that it is every bit as displeased as the rest of Famine.

My gaze travels back up his body, lingering on his glowing tattoos, which only seem to heighten his appearance.

“Well?” he says. “Are you done staring?”

I have to stifle a smile. Moody Famine is surprisingly fun to be around—at least when there’s no one present for him to kill.

I turn on the faucet and plug the drain, and then I wander out of the bathroom, grabbing a filmy white garment from Famine’s dresser that turns out to be a dress that looks only to be roughly my size.

Pulling it over me, I re-enter the bathroom. The horseman is still naked and still standing; the only difference is that now he’s crossed his arms over his chest.

I nod to the tub. “Sit.”

“I’m the one who gives the orders,” he says.

As if I could ever forget.

Sauntering over to him, I swat his butt. “Sit.”

He flashes me a withering look, and God but I’m used to men actually liking this shit. It’s weird to realize all over again that the horseman isn’t most men.

But … Faminedoessit, slowly leaning his back against the tub even as he glares at me. I turn off the water and make my way around the basin.

There’s a bench behind him, presumably where a servant might sit and help the occupant bathe. I grab a washcloth and a bar of soap and seat myself on that bench.

“Am I supposed to be enjoying this?” the Reaper says, grumpy as fuck, his back to me.

Hiking up my filmy dress, I scoot in close behind the horseman, adjusting myself so that my feet are dipped in the tub and Famine’s torso is cradled between my thighs.

At the press of my legs, I feel the horseman tense.

Leaning down, I dip the washcloth into the water. On my way back up, I say softly into his ear. “You might, if you’d actually let yourself.”

And then I drag the cloth down his chest.

He grabs one of my legs, presumably to remove it and the rest of me from his vicinity.

“Believe it or not,” I say conversationally, “I’m not trying to seduce you.”

Not that I would mind …

---