Page 69 of Famine

“What are you doing?” Famine asks again, this time more alarmed.

“Calm your tits. I’m not trying to deflower you.”

At least, not tonight.

That last wayward thought steals my breath.

What the hell, Ana?Sex with the monster isoffthe table … or on it, depending on whether there are platters of food nearby …

No,no. No fucking the scary horseman.

“You shouldn’t be moving your shoulder,” he says gruffly, his body still rigid beneath my touch.

“It’s fine.” It’s not really fine, but whatever. “I’ve lived through worse.”

It’s quiet for a moment, and I know Famine’s thinking about the scabs and scars on my torso.

The silence stretches on, and this is where a normal, nice person might apologize for nearly killing me. They might at the very least beg for forgiveness.

“You never should’ve been there,” Famine says as I begin peeling away his armor.

“Where?” I say, thinking he’s referring to protecting the old woman.

“Visiting me with that woman—the one who tried tosellyou.” His words drip with disdain.

“And whereshouldI have been?” I ask, casting aside a bronze vambrace.

“With me.”

I shiver at the low pitch of his voice, and this time there’s no mistaking it, they aregoodshivers.Problematicallygood shivers.

My hands move to the armor covering his chest, my body brushing against his. I can feel his eyes on me, and even though there’s nothing sexual going on, this whole situation feels intimate.

“Tell me about yourself,” I say to distract myself as I work on unfastening his breastplate.

“I don’t have aselfto share.”

My brows knit together. “Well ofcourseyou do.” My gaze ventures up, and even though the bedroom is steeped in shadows, I catch sight of the pools of his eyes.

He stares back at me, and after a moment, I sense that he might actually want me to elaborate on that.

The armor comes undone in my hands. “Since you’ve come to earth, you’ve been a man—”

“I’m not—”

“Youarea man. Just because you can’t die and you can make shit spontaneously grow,”—not to mention the swarms of bugs and the not sleeping and peeing—“you have a body. You have a self.”

I toss his unfastened breastplate aside, the metal clattering on the ground.

“What do you want me to say?” he finally responds. “Do you want me to tell you something human about myself? Evenifthere were a part of me that was truly human—which there isn’t—your kind made sure to stamp it out long ago.”

I think he’s alluding to the torture he met at our hands. I almost ask him about it, but I know that conversation would put the malice back in his voice. I’m not interested in his wrathful side; I get plenty of exposure to it during the day.

“Fine, then tell me somethinginhumanabout yourself.”

Another long silence follows. I think I might’ve shocked the Reaper, though I have no idea why.

“I feel … everything,” he finally says. “Every blade of grass, every drop of rain, every centimeter of sunbaked clay. I am the storm that rolls in, I am the wind that carries the bird and the butterfly.” As he speaks, he begins to gain confidence.

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