I move through the liquor considerably slower than him. I’m what you affectionately call a cheap date. If I can stretch my drinks out, I will.
I lean back in my seat. “After you arrived here on earth, did you also sleep?” There were, after all, five years where he was unaccounted for.
He nods, pushing his plate away.
I sort of want to ask him where he managed to sleep for five years undetected.
“Why sleep at all?” Why wait at all?
“There was the possibility …” He trails off, lost in some thought.
“What possibility?” I prod.
He rouses himself. “The possibility that humanity would redeem itself.” He grabs his glass and swirls it. “But alas, not even the End of Days can alter the depraved nature of your cursed kind.”
Ah, this spiel again. Just when I thought the horseman was done harping on humans for a while, too.
Pestilence lifts his cup up and stares at the little liquid that remains, his eyelids looking a little heavy. “This is poison,” he says, out of the blue.
“Mhm,” I agree. I mean, technically, it is.
His eyes slide to me. “Was that your plan all along? To poison me?”
Oh God, and now this poison-business. How idiotic must he think I am to try to poison an undying man?
“You’re the one pouring,” I say.
That logic seems to mollify him. Somewhat.
All of a sudden, Pestilence stands, grabbing his chair and dragging it around the table so that it’s next to mine. He sits on it backwards, unaware of just how sexy my traitorous eyes find him. He gives me one of his piercing stares.
I lean away from him nervously. “What?”
“I don’t know,” he admits. “I feel … something when I look at you.”
My mind flashes back to the bathroom and the heated expression on his face. A blush creeps up my neck, the alcohol making it burn hotter and spread wider than it would if I were sober. I force my eyes to stay on his face when all they really want to do is dip down to his torso.
“I cannot figure out what that something is,” he continues. “And hear me Sara, it is driving me mad.”
Join the motherfucking club. We’re taking applicants.
“You’re human,” he says. “I don’t like your kind. I’m not supposed to like you.”
I don’t breathe for a second.
Don’t ask the question, Burns. Don’t—
“But you do?” I say.
His eyes drop to my mouth. He touches my lower lip with his thumb, rubbing it gently. “God forgive me, I do.”
Chapter 22
I swallow, feeling that unnerving lightness in my belly. This close, Pestilence takes up my entire vision. I can see the remains of the bullet wound just above his collarbone, and his thick golden hair, which is still matted with blood and sea spray. It doesn’t at all take away from the glory of him. I can see the ocean in his eyes, his blue, blue eyes, and the thick lashes that surround them.
And now I’m staring at his mouth and that full upper lip that gives him a perpetually pouty look.
He has no idea how good looking he is. Scratch that—good looking is a term reserved for humans who are attractive, imperfections and all. This inhuman thing, with his angelic features, isn’t good looking, he’s blinding, breathtaking. He’s perfection incarnate. And isn’t that just cosmically unfair? He’s a harbinger of the apocalypse. He doesn’t need to be attractive, but he is.
His eyes continue to take in my lips. There’s something raw and powerful in his expression, like liquor has made him hunger for other forbidden things. Human things.
He moves his thumb over my lower lip again, and I feel that simple touch everywhere.
Lowering his hand, he leans in. I’m not sure he’s even aware that he’s doing it—moving towards the mouth he’s fixated on.
Over the course of our association, I’ve been close to Pestilence, but not like this.
Not like this.
He’s so close our breath is mingling.
My pulse hammers away at me until it’s all I can hear.
Tha-thump, tha-thump, tha-thump.
He’s going to kiss me.
That warm flush spreads out from my stomach.
Shouldn’t do this.
Can’t do it.
Won’t.
His hand slides to my neck, tilting my jaw up, his gaze still pinned to my lips.
Our mouths are so very close.
Just one taste, I reason. That’s not so bad, right? Just one taste. No one could blame me for being curious. This horseman is supposedly God’s justice and vengeance. How can I be doing anything wrong if I let His horseman touch me?
I half believe my insane musings. Right now, with the bourbon warming my insides and softening my resolve, I’ll bend just about any logic to let this happen.
Pestilence hesitates. Unlike me, I imagine he might be having one final moment to talk himself out of—rather than into—this.
In that one moment, I come to my senses.
My eyelids lower, and I stare at his lips.
“Please,” I whisper.
The hand on my neck presses into my skin, and then at once, it’s gone.
Spell’s broken.
“Please?” Pestilence pulls away to give me a look of disgust. “You say this to me now?” He runs a hand over his mouth and jaw, then looks around, like he’s waking from a dream.
He stands, and I can only stare up at him. I have nothing to say. No words to ameliorate the situation because I knowingly drove it here.
I begin to stand as well, but Pestilence places a hand on my shoulder to keep me in my seat, almost as though I were now the one pursuing him.
He sighs, suddenly looking every inch as exhausted as he should be, considering the day he had.
“It’s late, Sara,” he says. “You best get some sleep, we ride early tomorrow.”
With that he leaves me and the bourbon and this troubling emotion that I’m pretty sure is regret.
I know I should feel relieved—triumphant even. But, like the Good Book says, though the spirit may be willing, the flesh is, indeed, weak.
Chapter 23
Hangovers are the worst.
The next morning I force down the pancakes I made, hating that I can hardly enjoy them over my nausea.
This is why I don’t drink regularly.
Well, that and the fact that I can only afford moonshine most of the time. You don’t even need to get drunk on that sour piss to get a hangover.
I pet Pestilence’s horse, who spent the night inside and who’s now standing in the kitchen, snuffling the pancakes like he might like a taste.
Abandoning the pancakes, I stand and focus my attention on the horseman’s mount.
I run a hand down the steed’s neck. “You know, beneath your hardened exterior is just a woman who wants love and acceptance,” I say to Trixie.
“My steed is a man.” Pestilence says as he enters the room.
I tense at his voice. This is the first time today the two of us have shared the same space.
He comes up next to me to place a cursory hand on the horse, and damn my body but I am aware of every inch of him.
“Don’t listen to him, Trixie,” I say to the horse, ignoring the man next to me.
“You named him?” Pestilence says incredulously.
He won’t look at me. I mean, I won’t look at him either, but he was the one who walked away from me last night, so …
I’m not looking at him first.
Apparently hangovers make me childish.
I pet Trixie’s white fur. It’s such a pure color, like fallen snow. “He needed a name.”
“‘Tricksy’?” Disapproval drips from Pestilence’s voice. “My steed isn’t tricksy. He’s a noble, loyal beast.”
That … is not the reason I named his pet Trixie.
“You don’t get to judge how I name him,” I say, “when you won’t name him at all.”
The horseman rotates to me, and sweet baby angels, just the feel of his gaze is flipping my stomach.
I finally gather up the courage to look at Pestilence. He’s back in his full regalia, his black clothes whole and unstained once more. His armor is now smooth and unblemished. His bow and quiver are at his back, the latter full of arrows when I was sure that yesterday it was near empty. It’s a neat trick how more than just his body can piece itself back together. Neat—and eerie.
Pestilence’s gaze drops to my outfit—the lime-green top and flowing floral pants make me look like the lovechild of a diva and a gypsy—but then it rises, stopping at my mouth.