Page 94 of Famine

“Why would you even say something like that?” I ask, curious. As I speak, I remember how he stared at my lips last night. He looked hungry then …

“You always bring the subject of sex up,” he says, “like you expect me to succumb to some base nature of mine.”

“You’ve succumbed to your anger,” I say. “Is lust really so different?”

“It’s not the same thing.” He sounds defensive.

“Hmmm …” I say.

“We were talking aboutyourweaknesses,” he says. “Not mine.”

“Ah, yes,” I shift, my cheek brushing against his inner thigh. “My weakness for sex.”

There’s a beat of silence. Then—

“Posturing doesn’t suit you, flower.”

“Oh, I’mposturingnow?” I raise my eyebrows as I speak. To give him some credit, I’ve fashioned my weakness into a weapon. In a world where people believe an appetite for sex is a sin, I’ve wielded my sexuality like a sword.

“Beneath this …imageyou’ve built for yourself, you’re someone else entirely,” the horseman says, “aren’t you?”

I glance up at him. “We areallsomeone else,” I say.

I’ve seen men’s souls laid bare in the bedroom, and the biggest thing I’ve learned is that people are not what they seem. I’ve nearly been killed by a man who had a reputation for being kind, and a local criminal paid me to hold him all night, just so that he could cry in my arms.

Famine meets my eyes, and right here in the darkness, all ofhisposturing is gone. His hate and anger are a distant memory.

We hold each other’s gazes for longer than we should. Long enough to notice that even with his armor on, the glow of his glyphs still subtly illuminates his chin and cheeks.

“Is there anything about us humans that you do like?” I finally ask.

“I like your stories,” he admits, his voice like velvet in the darkness.

“Our stories?” I say, incredulous.

“Don’t sound so shocked.”

“Stories are the most human thing about humans. Of course I’m shocked.”

He doesn’t have anything to say to that.

“What sort of stories do you like?” I ask.

“Ones where a lot of people die,” he deadpans.

I reach out and give his chest a playful shove. “Get out of here. No you don’t. I bet you like romance.”

“No.”

“I bet you do. I don’t think anyone can resist a good romance.”

“Stop it, Ana,” he says. But I swear it sounds like there might be a slight smile to his voice.

Maybe I’m just imagining it.

“Well,” I say, shifting myself to get more comfortable in his lap, “now you have to tell me one.”

“No.”

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