Page 73 of Famine

“Come here,” he says.

I return to him, unsure what this whole stop’s actually about.

He steps in close, then reaches for my shift, tugging the loose collar carefully down my shoulder.

I stand impossibly still, my heart beginning to pick up speed.

“I need you to free this arm.”

“I’m going to have to take the dress off,” I say.

In response, he steps back, presumably to give me room to disrobe. When, however, I begin to struggle at removing my belt, Famine steps forward again, helping me first pull it off, and then the nightgown.

I stand there, off to the side of the road, my tits out, wearing nothing but the grannie panties I also happened to lift from the house this morning.

Famine doesn’t so much as blink when he sees my breasts. Instead, his focus is on my shoulder. Carefully, he unwinds my bandages. Whatever he sees makes him frown.

For my part, I refuse to look at the wound. It’s one thing to feel the pain, another to see the grotesque proof of it.

The horseman reaches towards the injury, then hesitates.

“What are you doing?” I say.

He drops his hand, his cold gaze flicking to mine. “Repaying an old debt,” he says.

“So you’re attempting to kill me?” I ask half-jokingly.

The barest hints of a smile tug at the corner of his mouth. “I believe I already tried that once.” His eyes dip meaningfully to my stomach before returning to my shoulder.

After a moment, he backs away from me, heading to his horse. He rifles through one of the saddle bags, eventually pulling out a glass of some clear alcohol.

“You’ve been holding out on me,” I say. I amallfor day-drinking. Especially while injured … and in the horseman’s company.

He comes back over and uncorks the liquor. Lifting the bottle up, he tips the liquid onto the wound.

I hiss through my teeth. Shit, but that hurts.

“You don’t need to do that,” I rasp out.

In front of me, the Reaper stiffens, his shoulders tensing, and he doesn’t look at all thrilled that I’m in agony at the moment.

“I’mrepaying a debt,” he repeats.

Semantics. He’s trying to help, which is completely mind-blowing, considering the hate this man harbors for all human life.

Famine sets the alcohol down, then unfastens his breastplate, shrugging it off before setting it on the ground. His fingers go to the hem of his black shirt, and I have only a moment to wonder what he’s doing before—

Riiiiip.

He removes a strip of material from the bottom of his shirt, bringing it up to my shoulder.

Famine’s eyes settle on mine for a moment. “Donotread into this.”

Oh, I’m planning on reading the entire fucking series ofFamine Acting Abnormally Kind and What it Means.

His fingers fumble and his expression is increasingly tumultuous as he wraps the cloth around my wound. By the time he knots off the bandage, he seems openly angry.

He picks his breastplate up and slips it back on. “Let’s go.”

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