Page 152 of Famine

So I need to stop thinking about him like things between us have changed.

When I trust that I’m not going to get sick again, I pad over to the dresser and pull out a filmy dress from the top drawer, this one the color of rouge.

There’s a half full pitcher of water and some stale bread sitting next to my bed, and my throat tightens at the sight.

Did Famine leave that for me?

Warmth spreads low in my belly.

Stop it, Ana. He’s just a bossy asshole that you’re reluctantly friends with.

… Friends with benefits.

That’s all.

I eat the bread and drink most of the water, and then, stomach sloshing, I crawl back into Famine’s bed.

But when I close my eyes, all I see are the memories of what we did in this bed for the rest of the night. No sex—but everything right up to it.

At least I don’tthinkthere was any sex … things got a bit blurry there towards the end.

It doesn’t help that the memory of Famine’s deft hands and that cruel mouth against my skin is reawakening my lust.

Everything will go back to the way it was tomorrow?I had asked.

Idiot, idiot, idiot.

My mind isnevergoing to wash away those memories. And until it does, things are not going to be the same between us.

Eventually, Famine comes for me.

I hear his footfalls coming up the hall. With every step he takes, my heart speeds up. The footfalls pause outside his room, and then the door opens.

Even though I’m curled up on myself, my back to the door, I can still sense the horseman’s eyes on me. My skin tingles with awareness.

Then those footfalls again. My pulse is pounding in my ears and I feel sick with anxiety and the worst sort of excitement. Oh, and legitimate nausea. That too.

Getting drunk is definitely overrated.

Famine stops a meter from the bed.

“What’s wrong with you?” His deep voice raises goosebumps along my skin.

God, he’s awful.

He’s also clearly having no problem returning to the way things were.

I bury my face in my pillow.

Does he even know about hangovers? If he doesn’t, I’m not sure I have the energy to explain.

I also hate that his voice is making my cheeks heat and my headache pound against my temple.

“Everything,” I mumble, drawing the blankets closer to me. “I want to forget the last twenty-four hours.”

“That would require more alcohol.”

I groan. “Never again,” I rasp. Just the memory of all those different liquors has me gagging.

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