Page 84 of Famine

Finally, I tear my eyes away, staring at everyone and everything else but him.

“Uncomfortable?” he asks, squeezing my hand.

“More than a little,” I admit.

“Good. It means you haven’t forgotten what I am.”

I press my lips together. He thinksthat’sthe reason I’m uncomfortable? If only he realized that despite how awful he is, I’d still be half down to fuck the smirk off his face. And not for the sake of humanity. Staring at him makes me forget what a shitty person he is.

His gaze stays on me as we move, and I fight to ignore it. It helps that every few seconds I accidentally step on Famine’s feet. That’s distracting enough to ignore his gaze.

“Has anyone told you that you are complete shit at dancing?” he asks, drawing my attention back to him.

“I can always count on you for a compliment,” I say sarcastically.

“Whyareyou so terrible at this?” Famine asks, curious.

“I was paid to fuck people, not to teach them the samba.”

The song ends, and I pull my hands back. The Reaper, meanwhile, is slower to release me, his hand lingering on my waist.

His fingers press in, and he pulls me towards him. “Stay close,” he whispers into my ear.

I narrow my eyes at him. “Why?”

The corner of his mouth curves up. After a moment, his gaze lifts from me, taking in the rest of the room. And just like that, my pulse begins to gallop away.

He brushes past me, returning to his chair, and I’m left on the dancefloor, staring after him.

“What does he have over you?” a male voice asks.

I nearly jump at the sound. I glance over at the man who’s crept up to my side. It’s one of Famine’s guards—I think it might be the same one who was staring at my legs earlier.

“What?” I ask, confused.

“What does he have over you?” the man repeats. “Or are you with him by choice?”

I scrutinize him. “Why do you care?” I say.

The man lifts a shoulder in response, his gaze flitting over my face. He’s taken a little too much interest in me.

I edge away from him.

The Reaper lounges in his chair, one leg thrown over his knee, his fingers drumming along the armrest. His agitation is back. The horseman stares at the room full of people as though they sicken him. It doesn’t seem to matter that he forced them here, or that many of them appear worried.

My heart is racing and my breath is coming fast. I’m acutely aware of the dagger in my boot.

Next to me, Famine’s guard lingers, like he has more to say but he needs to recapture my attention.

I turn to him. “What are you still doing next to me?”

Ugh, I sound like the Reaper. That infernal bastard is rubbing off on me.

The guard opens his mouth, his expression caught somewhere between ire and defensiveness.

“Enough,” Famine says, interrupting us. His voice booms across the room.

The music cuts off and the people end their chatter. In the silence, the hairs along my arms rise.

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