Page 79 of Famine

“Okay—okay!” I say, mostly because it’s hard to come by a decent set of shoes these days. “I hate you, butokay,” I mutter.

I grab the dress as he watches me with steely eyes. I know he’s not going to leave, so I don’t bother asking him to. I’ve lost enough power plays today as it is.

Slipping off the bed, I shuck off the remains of my nightgown then shake out the dress, trying to determine what it looks like. It seems to be wine colored, but I can’t be sure in the growing darkness. It has enough glittery pieces to it that I can tell it’s something ostentatious.

A line of buttons run up the back of the dress, and I have to pause to unbutton each one. Once the opening is wide enough, I step into the dress. I pull it up, feeling the beaded bodice and the ruffled skirt that’s cut high in the front and low in the back. It’s a little loose, but it works well enough.

All at once I have a flashback to my nights at the bordello, wearing dresses that cinched up the back, rouging my face in front of my vanity.

I’m getting pretty again, and I’m actually not too fond of that fact.

“Happy?” I say sullenly, turning to the horseman.

“Mmm.” He makes a noncommittal sound.

“You’ll need to button it for me.”

“Do it yourself,” he throws back.

“I can’treachthe buttons, Mr. I’ve-never-worn-a-fucking-dress-before-and-have-no-idea-how-one-actually-works.”

He glares at me.

“Or—I could not wear it,” I add.

After a moment, he approaches me. “Where are they?”

“The buttons?” I reply. “Down my back—along my spine.”

Famine tosses his dagger onto the bed, freeing up his hands. Gruffly he grabs my good shoulder and turns me around so my back is facing him. I feel the brush of his fingertips as he pulls the material together. Clumsily, the Reaper tries and tries again to get the small cloth-covered buttons through the little loop openings that edge the fabric. My stomach tightens at his touch, and I can’t help but feel his breath as it stirs the hair against my neck.

I should not be reacting this way to him—not when he literally just untied me from the bed.

A hundred and twenty years later, the Reaper finishes buttoning me up. I pull out the hair that’s inadvertently gotten tucked into the dress and I turn around.

The horseman is already on his way out.

“Follow me,” he calls over his shoulder.

I hesitate, my eyes moving to the bed where the Reaper tossed his blade only minutes ago. On a whim I lean over the bed and grasp the weapon, tucking it into one of my boots. Days ago I wasn’t brave enough to hide a knife on my person. But a lot has changed in that time.

I take a couple steps, making sure I don’t slice my ankle.

Am I really going to dare the horseman’s wrath by doing this?

I think of the hours spent tied to the bed while dozens of people died.

Yes, I think I am.

Dagger now secured, I trudge out of the room.

Halfway down the hallway, Famine glances over his shoulder at me. I think he just means to make sure I’m behind him, but the moment he catches sight of me, he does a double take, stumbling to a halt.

Nowthat’sa reaction.

Out here in the hallway, the candlelight better illuminates my outfit, and Famine uses that light to look me over, starting with the hem of my dress—which is in fact a deep red color—and moving his gaze up. He looks like he doesn’t know what hit him.

I raise an eyebrow. “Are you sure you don’t like sex?” I say. “You’re looking at me as though you might.”

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