Page 151 of Famine

“And you can’t routinely beat someone and pretend to still love them,” he continues.

“You don’t know that,” I say, my voice coming out as a whisper because he touched on something real and deep. “It’s not that black and white.”

“Are you serious?” he says, disbelieving. “We’re talking about the people whohurt you, Ana. How can you come to their defense?” Famine looks outraged on my behalf.

“They gave me a home when no one else would,” I argue.

“Iwould’ve,” he says.

“Am I supposed to regret not heading off into the sunset with the man who murdered my entire town?”

“They were scum who abused a kid—and they abusedme.”

The moment the words are out of his mouth, his jaw clenches and unclenches.

I open my mouth to argue with him some more when he stands, scooping me up in the process. “Enough of this,” he says, carrying me towards the wing of the estate where his rooms are. “I want to taste that pussy of yours again, and damn you, but the concessions I would make just to get your cunning mouth back on my dick.”

Concessions? Nowthat’spiqued my interest. Maybe I’ll still get my moment to save humanity after all.

A blowjob to end all bloodshed.I reallydolike the ring of that.

Chapter 37

Late the next morning, I wake up in a bed that’s not my own. Which, really, isn’t all that strange, now that I have some time to process where I am.

Famine’s room. Heitor’s house.

I sit up, only to realize that my lips are swollen and my clothes are missing, my hair is a fucking mess, and my head—

Fuck me—I haven’t had a headache this bad in who knows how long.

A moment later, the nausea surfaces.

There’s a fancy toilet in the bathroom, but it might as well be in a different city, it’s too far away. There’s a decorative vase resting near the bed.

That’ll have to do.

I barely have time to scramble over to it, buck naked, before my stomach is purging itself of everything I ate and drank in the last twelve hours.

As I retch, last night comes back to me in all its lurid detail.

And oh, was itlurid.

I clutch the ceramic vase to me and hurl again, though this time I’m not sure whether it’s from the alcohol or the memory of my bad, bad choices.

I can still feel Famine’s touch on my skin, his lips pressed against my pussy.

I let him eat me out. Good God. I let a horseman of the apocalypseeat me out.

At the memory I feel myself blush. Me, the professional prostitute,blushing—over oral, no less.

But Father have mercy, I’d enjoyed it too. And then there was our very painfully real conversation. He saw my scars, he got angry on my behalf.

I let out a shaky breath. Has anyone truly been angry on my behalf? There were my friends at the bordello—Izabel in particular knew about the beatings and she’d cursed my aunt a time or two. But even her indignation never had the same sort of depth and weight that Famine’s did. He looked at me last night like I deserved better—like if he could, he’d go back in time and erase my pain—or punish those who caused it.

And I can’t help but be … moved. So moved.

Which is awfully problematic because everything between me and Famine is supposed to go back to the way it was. That was the agreement.

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