War (The Four Horsemen Book 2) Page 17

  Fuck, I think I want to find out what that feels like, just as I want to know what it would feel like to have War’s hips nestled between my thighs, his massive body pressed against mine …

  I’m leaning forward too.

  I almost manage to forget everything else.

  But then, there’s a lot to forget. Too much.

  I can hear the screams from battle, and I can see the way the birds circled those conquered cities. I remember the corpses—all those corpses—littering so many kilometers of road, and War’s armor covered in blood.

  I release his hand. He’s handsome and kind and he saved my life, but as he said—

  I am not like you, and you should never forget that.

  Abruptly, I stand. “I think I need to go to bed.”

  You idiot, Miriam. To think that you almost initiated something with the horseman.

  Loneliness is clearly getting the better of me.

  I can feel the horseman’s gaze on my back as I move over to my pallet. Just like the first time we traveled, mine is heaped with blankets. I’d take War’s instead, just to make a point that I can stand to sleep like a miser, but considering the way we were eye-fucking each other only a moment ago, he might get the wrong impression.

  And I don’t think I’d have it in me to turn him down twice.

  As I take off my boots, War puts out the last of the fire. I expect him to say something about what just happened—some promise for more, some frustration that I slipped from his grasp (literally) once again, but he doesn’t.

  It’s unnerving as hell, mostly because I’m reminded that as brutal as War is, he’s a strategist. And I think he knows how to play me.

  Shortly after I lay down on my pallet, he does the same, removing his shirt as he does so. I can see his tattoos glowing in the night.

  “You don’t need to go to bed just because I am,” I say.

  “I don’t want to be awake when you’re asleep. Talking with you reminds me of how lonely it is to exist.”

  Those words tighten my chest. I hadn’t imagined that the horseman might feel that way when he lives among a horde of humans. To be honest, I hadn’t considered that he was even capable of feeling lonely. Loneliness is a very vulnerable, very human feeling. It doesn’t fit my notion of War.

  Maybe your notion is wrong.

  He’s right there. It’s not too late to be a little less lonely for an evening.

  “Miriam,” he says, interrupting my thoughts.

  “Mm?” I say.

  “Tell me something beautiful.”

  I’m not sure I heard the horseman correctly. He wants to hear about something beautiful? I didn’t think a man like War had room in him for something like beauty.

  My notion of him is most definitely wrong.

  I turn on my pallet so that I can look at the horseman. He lays on his own bed, staring up at the stars. He must feel my gaze on him, but he doesn’t turn to me.

  Something beautiful …

  The story comes to me almost immediately. “My father was Muslim. My mother was Jewish.”

  He’s quiet.

  I run my fingers over the cloth of my blankets as I speak. “They met at Oxford while they were both getting their doctorates. My dad told me he heard my mother’s laugh before he saw her face. Supposedly that’s when he knew he was going to love her.”

  My fingers still. “They weren’t supposed to love each other.”

  “Why?” War’s voice comes from the darkness.

  My eyes move to him. “Their families didn’t want them to be together—because they were from two different cultures and two different religions.” My father, Turkish-American, and my mother, Israeli.

  The horseman doesn’t say anything to that, so I continue.

  “In the end, it didn’t matter to them what their families thought. They knew that love was love. That it can bridge all gaps.”

  I exhale. Now my parents are gone and this great love story I believed in as a kid came to a shit ending.

  So maybe it’s not beautiful, after all. The world takes away everything, in the end.

  Now he turns his head to face me. “So, you find love beautiful, Miriam?” he asks.

  “No,” I say, my eyes meeting his in the near-darkness. “Not love itself.” Everything I’ve ever loved I’ve lost. There’s no beauty in that. “It’s the power of love that I find beautiful.”

  It can change so many things—

  For better, or worse.

  Chapter 24

  I wake against War.

  Just like the last time this happened, I’ve left my pallet, my body gravitating towards the horseman’s like a magnet.

  I lift my head a little and see that at least this morning, War has left his own pallet as well, the two of us meeting somewhere in the middle.

  That only makes me feel a smidgen better.

  My eyes move to the horseman. He’s still asleep, his long lashes fanned out against his cheeks. I feel my skin heat even as I slowly allow myself to settle back into him.

  Is it wrong to reimagine this situation? Because I want to. So badly.

  The longer I’m pressed to him, the more my body awakes to his. I’m aware that he’s made of muscle and perhaps nothing else, and that all of that muscle feels so very good against me. There’s also a perverse part of me that enjoys feeling small and protected right here in the cocoon of his arms. It’s been a long time since I’ve felt protected.

  My gaze moves to his chest, where his pectorals are wrapped in those glowing tattoos. Before I can think better of it, I lift a hand and trace one. Beneath my touch, the horseman’s skin pebbles.

  War’s arm tightens on me, and he wakes with a slow, devil-may-care grin. I wonder how many more of those I’ll get today. I’m horrified to realize that I’ve started to anticipate those smiles. The horseman doesn’t do much smiling, so each one I win gives me perverse pleasure. Emphasis on perverse.

  “Wife, you’re making a habit of finding your way into my arms.”

  A habit that, judging from his face, he’s going to do nothing to deter.

  “You met me in the middle,” I say a little defensively because I’m feeling an awful lot like I’m pursuing him right now when it’s been the other way around.

  War gives me another sleepy smile, which heats my core.

  “How could I not?” he says. “In sleep I don’t have nearly so much restraint.”

  He still hasn’t let me go, and I haven’t tried to move out of his arms. I think neither one of us is all that eager to end this moment.

  The horseman reaches out and traces the scar at the base of my throat. “How did you get this?”

  The question shatters my mood.

  The explosion roars through my ears, the force of it knocking me into the water.

  Darkness. Nothing. Then—

  I gasp in a breath. There’s water and fire and … and … and God the pain—the pain, the pain, the pain.

  I squeeze my eyes shut against the memory. When I open them, it’s carefully tucked away again.

  “Why does it matter?” I ask.

  War’s deep eyes rise to mine. “It matters.”

  I frown. “I was in an accident. I have other scars in other places.”

  This, of course, is the wrong thing to say. War’s eyes grow avid; he looks like he wants to peel my clothes away and read my skin like it’s a roadmap.

  His gaze moves up the column of my throat. Past my mouth and nose. I lock eyes with him, and neither of us looks away. I can see those flecks of gold in his irises. I can even see that right now, his eyes have been stripped of violence.

  What’s left in them is pure desire.

  My breathing speeds up and my core begins to throb, and I want him, I want him, I want him. I thought sleeping it off would change things, but it hasn’t.

  His face is so close. Too close.

  It’s me that closes the distance between us. Me who presses my lips to his. This is pure, unadulterated impulse.r />
  So much for not pursuing him …

  He tastes just as I remember. Like smoke and steel. And unlike the rest of his body, War’s mouth is pliant.

  The kiss is supposed to be gentle, but the horseman hijacks it, crushing his lips against mine. He’s devouring me with the same intensity he has in battle.

  He rolls us over so that I’m on my back and he’s above me, pinning me to the ground. He keeps his weight off me, but even still, he feels as solid and heavy as those tanks rotting in Jerusalem’s junkyards. Shamelessly, I grind against him, biting back a moan.

  In the distance, I hear the slow clop of hooves, but my attention is intensely focused on War as his hand moves down to my chest and cups a breast.

  I don’t mean to, but a breathy gasp slips out.

  War breaks away from the kiss long enough to say, “Wife, I have not been living until this moment. You must make that sound again.”

  Fuck, he noticed that?

  Clop, clop, clop, clop.

  The horseman’s lips return to mine, and his hand is back on my breast, and I am rubbing my pelvis against his like it’s a professional sport.

  Clop, clop, clop, clop.

  This is going to happen right here, right now. My dry spell will officially be over. I’ll deal with the fallout of this bad decision later.

  A shadow rolls over us, and when I bother looking up, I notice War’s horse leaning over, snuffling the horseman’s hair.

  Unlike Lady Godiva, War didn’t bother to tie up his steed out here. And now his horse just cock-blocked the shit out of this situation.

  War breaks away from me. “Deimos,” he groans, sounding exasperated as he pushes the horse’s muzzle away.

  Giving me an apologetic look, War rolls off of me to deal with his steed.

  I sit up, dusting the dirt off my hair and clothes, feeling only a little chagrined at what I just did. I watch War interact with Deimos, petting the beast along his cheek and neck.

  I’ve always thought the war horse, with his massive frame and blood red coat, was a frightening creature, but right now he seems more like a needy little kid, eager for his father’s attention.

  Alright, horses might have a thing or two over bikes. Even if they poop everywhere.

  I’m just about to wander over to where horse and rider stand when I hear some low sound. I squint at the road and see indistinct shapes right at that point where land meets sky.

  Deimos wasn’t cock-blocking us after all. He was sounding the alarm.

  War’s army is on the horizon.

  Chapter 25

  I step out of my newly erected tent that evening, armed with purpose.

  Outside, the forlorn little spot War and I camped out in is now covered with tents as far as the eye can see. The private moments we had here only hours ago have been replaced with people and industry.

  I feel a brief pang of loss, but it quickly fades, replaced by my growing nerves.

  I bite the inside of my cheek, my eyes going to the horseman’s tent. I’ve come up with a plan of sorts. A cringe-y, half-baked plan, but a plan nonetheless. One that makes my stomach drop a little every time I think about it.

  At least it will stop making you feel so torn—if it works.

  War is going to invade the next big city in another day or two. I need to make this happen before then.

  I take a single step towards his tent, then hesitate.

  My plan could wait until tomorrow …

  Then again if I put it off, it might never find the courage to do this again.

  I begin to head towards War’s tent, my heart in my throat.

  The night is warm and still, and the sounds of camp surround me—the dull purr of torches, the distant bellows of laughter, the soft flutter of canvas. If our circumstances were different, these noises would be comforting.

  God, am I really going to do this?

  The phobos riders who are normally standing guard around the area are gone. I approach the tent, and from inside I hear several voices talking.

  I hesitate, twisting my clammy fingers together, my breath coming too fast.

  Now might really be a bad time for this.

  The low murmur of the horseman’s voice drifts out from inside, and my stomach clenches.

  I can still turn around. He would never know.

  Be brave.

  I pull the canvas flap aside just the smallest amount.

  Inside, the horseman listens to his men as they strategize how to best invade Arish, the next city on his list apparently.

  “The ocean blocks the city from the north, the desert from the south,” a phobos rider says. “We’re coming from the east, leaving civilians only true escape to the west. It might be best to split the army and come at it from both ends.”

  I frown at the man talking. He’s speaking of how to best annihilate an entire city.

  War studies the topography, his chest bare, his tattoos glowing like rubies.

  “There’s also Highway 55 to think about,” a female soldier says, moving her finger over a section of the map. “It does lead to the desert, but if people are desperate enough, they will use it to flee south—”

  A hand wraps roughly around my upper arm.

  “Spying on the warlord?” a man growls from behind me.

  I turn and catch sight of yet another one of the horseman’s phobos riders. Uzair I think his name is. He’s got an especially mean look about him.

  He shoves me inside War’s tent. The horseman and the other soldiers look up at the commotion.

  “I found your woman lingering outside the tent. She was listening to your plans,” Uzair says.

  War’s eyes flick over me before moving to the man. “Go.”

  The rider hesitates. Clearly, he thought he was going to get a pat on the shoulder for ratting me out.

  He gives War a stiff bow and leaves.

  The remaining soldiers are watching the horseman, waiting on his cue before they act.

  War jerks his head towards the flaps of the tent. Wordlessly, the lot of them file out. As they go, most of them give me hard looks.

  I haven’t earned any allies amongst his men.

  The horseman stares at the tent flaps for several seconds even after everyone has left.

  “If you wish to know my plans,” he finally says, “you only have to ask.”

  War and I both know I’d only use the information to sabotage his efforts.

  “That’s not why I’m here,” I say.

  “Then why are you here?” he asks, moving away from his map. His eyes are alight with interest.

  Be brave. Be brave. Be brave.

  He strides closer, and I take him in—really take him in. From his imposing frame, to his dark eyes and sharp cheekbones, his cutting jaw and the vast expanse of his bare torso. Everything about him was made to end lives.

  I open my mouth—

  Bail.

  “You know what, forget about it.” The words rush out.

  Another time, I promise myself.

  Just as I turn to go, War catches my arm, and I twist back to look at him.

  He searches my face. “You have a look in your eye …”

  I have a look in my eye?

  “Tell me why you’re here,” he commands.

  My gaze moves from the hand on my arm to his face.

  Just woman up say it already.

  I exhale. “I have a proposition for you.”

  “A proposition,” he repeats. His voice carries weight to it, weight that heats my cheeks.

  If anyone would understand trades, it would be War. Opposing sides meet, exchange one thing for another, and then resume conflict in the morning.

  He continues scrutinizing me with growing intensity. “What is it, wife, that you propose?”

  While I stare up at him, I step in close. Very deliberately, I place my palm against his chest.

  “I think you want this,” I say softly, unable to spell out exactly what I’m offering. “And more.”
/>   So much more.

  War breathes deeply, and his eyes burn. He doesn’t deny it.

  “This is your proposition?” he asks.

  My dreaded plan.

  I nod.

  “What do you want?” His voice is deep and resonate.

  He wants to make a deal.

  I release a shaky breath. This is exactly what I’ve been hoping for. The misgivings I have pale in comparison.

  “Stop raising the dead,” I say.

  I’m not asking War to end his damnable crusade; I’m simply asking that he not completely eradicate us all. Maybe then some people would survive War’s raids. At this point, some is better than none.

  War closes his eyes and moves a hand over mine, pinning my palm to his chest.

  “It’s a good offer.” The horseman opens his eyes. “I’m as tempted as I’ll ever be—”

  I feel my hope expanding …

  “—but no, Miriam, I will not agree to this.”

  … then plummeting.

  My cheeks flush at the rejection.

  I was a fool to think I could persuade him so easily. Or to think that my body has that high of a price tag on it. And then there’s also the petty humiliation I feel. It was debasing enough to offer up my services—but to then have them turned down anyway?

  All at once I’m angry—mostly at myself, but at War as well.

  I begin to pull my hand away, but he holds it prisoner.

  “So quick to leave?” he says.

  I openly glare at the horseman, and the look causes him to laugh menacingly.

  “Yes, hate me, savage woman; your anger makes you come alive.”

  He still has my hand pinned.

  “This is where we bargain,” he says.

  “This is non-negotiable,” I say. “You can take my offer or leave it and let me go.”

  War ignores my words. “What if we camped a little longer between cities?” he says. “I could buy your people some extra time.”

  A few days? If I’m going to screw this horseman when and how he asks for it, I want to be buying years—decades even—of someone’s life. Not days.

  “That’s not good enough.”

  He flashes me a cruel smile. “You’re quick to jump from trades to demands.”