Page 80 of Famine

The horseman rips his gaze from my body, meeting my eyes. “I am not looking at you inanyway”

“Yep, you are. You definitely look like you could bang one out. I’m real good at quickies—”

Famine growls—growls!—in response, much to my delight.

“Enough of this, Ana.” His gaze drops to my borrowed boots, and his irritated expression deepens.

“What?” I say defensively. “You gave me a dress, not shoes.”

He looks heavenward, then resumes walking once more. “C’mon, flower.”

“You still haven’t told me where we’re going.” Earlier, he had mentioned some sort of celebration in passing, but I haven’t heard anything about it since. The dress, however, does seem to fit the occassion.

Famine doesn’t respond, and a wave of trepidation passes over me. Whatever his plans are, they can’t possibly be good.

Outside, his horse is already waiting for him, along with several of his men. The greasy stench of smoke and charred bodies is stronger out here, and I have to swallow back my rising bile.

Several of the guards’ eyes go to my exposed legs. One of them glances from my calves to my face, and I raise my eyebrows at him.

I mean,really? We are literally breathing in human remains and he wants to check out a pair of shapely legs?

For shame.

The Reaper steps in front of me. “You want a dress too?” he asks the offending man.

I raise my eyebrows. I assumed the horseman didn’t notice these sorts of nonverbal interactions.

Apparently, I was wrong.

The man sputters some response.

“No?” the horseman interrupts. “Then stop eye-fucking the girl.”

With that, the Reaper grabs me by the waist and hauls me onto his steed. A second later he follows me up, and then we’re riding off into the darkness.

I’m still processing that little exchange.

I glance over my shoulder at Famine. “You know what eye-fucking is?” I have the oddest urge to laugh.

The Reaper looks down at me. “I wasn’t born yesterday.”

I gaze at him a little longer, and then I grin, my lips spreading wide.

“What?” he says.

“Nothing.”

“What?”

“If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were jealous.”

“Flower, I don’tgetjealous.”

“Uh huh.”

“What is that tone?” he demands.

“What tone?” I ask innocently.

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