War (The Four Horsemen Book 2) Page 34

  I set aside the arrow I’ve nearly completed, when War closes the distance and captures my face, taking my mouth in his. He kisses me with his usual ferocity, and I melt into the embrace.

  His hands skim down my sides, and yes, yes, yes. I’ve wanted to feel War against me every single day since we’ve been apart. Even when my anger burned red hot.

  My hands go to his shirt, fumbling to get it off. His own hands slide under the hem of mine, his thumbs brushing the underside of my breasts.

  It’s all happening just as I hoped it would, when suddenly, he stops. His hands withdraw, and I want to cry out.

  “You’re sick.” He says it like he’s just now remembering himself. He doesn’t, however, mention finding me a doctor again. I’d bet my romance book that there is no doctor, at least not here at camp.

  I shake my head, even though I do feel a little nauseous. With each touch of his, desire is eclipsing my sickness.

  “If you aren’t inside me in the next five minutes, I’m going to be threatening you with another sword,” I say.

  War’s violent eyes crinkle with mirth, and he kisses me again—albeit, a bit hesitantly.

  “There is something you should know, wife,” he says, pulling away. “In all my years, there’s only one aspect of love—”

  My breath catches on that word.

  “—that I’ve ever really known,” he continues. “And that’s longing. That’s all that the battlefield has to offer—a longing so deep it has a presence of its own. Love is a hope that carries men through dark nights, but it’s nothing more than that.”

  My brows furrow. “Why are you telling me this?”

  “When we were apart, that’s what I felt. Longing. It was as familiar a sensation to me as swinging my sword,” he says. “I hated my empty bed and my lonely tent, but it’s what I’ve always known. It’s being with you that’s something new, something I want but don’t understand.”

  I think this is an apology and an explanation for why he stayed away, though I can’t be sure. War’s words make my stomach churn uncomfortably and my breaths come faster and faster.

  “Love is more than longing,” I say quietly.

  It’s far, far more than that.

  His hand tightens against me. “I am not a man of words, wife. I am a man of action.”

  I wait for him to continue, still not sure where he’s going with this.

  “If you want me to believe you—then show me.”

  Oh.

  Well, shit.

  How am I supposed to show War what love is when I don’t even know what it is I do feel for him?

  But then I remember what prompted this entire exchange—the fact that I wanted to get in his pants despite being sick. I’m definitely well enough for a bit of sex, and if showing him love is his one stipulation …

  I can give it a try. You know, all in the name of make-up sex.

  Swallowing down my nerves, I take his hand and lead him to his pallet. Outside, I hear the torches hiss and pop, and in the distance, someone laughs. But it all seems so very removed from this moment.

  I reach up for War’s shoulders and push him down onto the bed. He watches me as he lowers himself, letting me take the lead.

  I follow him down, maneuvering myself so I’m straddling his waist. I lean over War and I stare into his eyes and remember every good thing he has ever done—from saving Zara’s nephew to not raising the dead that one time. I remember all those instances where he saved my own life, and how today he came for me when I was sick.

  I stare into those violent eyes until I see them thaw. And now I run my hands over the planes of his face, my thumbs dragging over his kohl-lined eyes until the black makeup is smudged. Leaning down, I kiss him—softly first, but then gradually harder and deeper.

  I don’t know if I’m doing this right. I don’t really know how to show the horseman love when love isn’t really sex. But it’s the best I got at the moment.

  As I move over him, I feel the hard planes of his physique, each curve still new and wondrous to me. There’s a giddy flutter low in my belly, and it scares the shit out of me.

  My eyes flick back to War’s. He’s watching me, enraptured.

  I pull my shirt off, then my bra, leaning back down to trail kisses over his bare torso.

  “Take off the rest,” I whisper to him.

  He doesn’t even hesitate. Whatever I’m doing has lit a fire in his eyes. He flips us around and pulls the rest of our clothes off before draping himself back over my body.

  The horseman’s hand slips down between my legs, and he begins to touch me until I’m moaning and grinding against his palm, and he’s whispering wife over and over again beneath his breath.

  This is safe territory. We’ve done this dozens of times. This isn’t love, it’s plain and simple desire. And even though I’m supposed to be showing War love, this is much more comfortable and familiar.

  He leans over me, his eyes intense, and I touch his cheek, even as his fingers work in and out of me.

  The warlord’s breathing heavily, and he’s rock hard and ready. He looks at me like he’s about to ask, What’s next?

  I angle my pelvis and spread my legs, my meaning obvious.

  “Don’t look away,” I say, staring up at him. I think that might be the key to this whole showing love business.

  War doesn’t look away. Not as he grasps my hips, his fingers slick against my skin, and not as he fits the head of his cock at my entrance. His eyes are on mine as he thrusts inside me, hard enough to make me gasp.

  We’ve stared plenty at each other when we’ve had sex, but tonight, it’s charged. Maybe it’s that we both have simply been missing each other, but just the sight and feel of him leaves me breathless. My heart is galloping in my chest, and it’s almost entirely from this thing between us.

  I can so easily imagine it—loving War. Spending the rest of my life in these arms of his.

  His cock throbs inside me, so thick that I can feel every twitch and pulse of it. Gently, he withdraws.

  “My wife, you are everything I never knew I wanted,” he says, thrusting back into me.

  Again that giddy flutter. Again that unease at my runaway emotions.

  War leans in and kisses me, and everything about it is tender and so unlike my aggressive horseman.

  “Forgive me,” he whispers against my lips. “Forgive me, Miriam.”

  The warlord is achingly gentle, each stroke of his hips a plea. He’s making love to me, and he doesn’t even know it, so desperate is he for my forgiveness.

  “Harder,” I say, because I’m suddenly in very real threat of feeling something I had no intention of feeling tonight. I was supposed to show him love, not the other way around.

  And yet War shakes his head and keeps his thrusts soft, loving. His eyes are trained on mine, just as I instructed him. Only now, this whole experience has slipped out of my control. My heart is still hammering away, and my stomach is still doing funny things.

  No, no, no, no, no.

  But I’m pinned under that look, and I’m being lured in by those eyes, which look so kind, so sad right now.

  His eyes are telling me what his words haven’t.

  I love you.

  The rest of his body is good at talking too. Every touch feels like worship, every thrust feels like a promise. This is all spinning wildly out of my control, and Goddamnit, his gaze is still pinned on me. Why did I ask him not to look away? I can’t escape what’s in his eyes. I’m melting to it, and I really, really don’t want to.

  I can feel myself building … building … building …

  “War—”

  I come then, staring into his face, my lips parting in surprise as my orgasm crashes through me.

  I see his own expression sharpen as his cock thickens inside me an instant later. And then he’s coming on the wings of my own climax, the two of us locked in this strange synchrony.

  Our orgasms seem to last an eternity, the two of us staring at each o
ther as we ride them out.

  This is something new, something more than cut and dry sex. I can’t deny it, even if it startles me.

  I made love to the horseman. It’s thrilling and terrifying all at once.

  He slips out of me and pulls me to him, and for a brief moment, things feel comfortable between us once more.

  But the comfortable moment starts to drift away when I realize that War is still staring at me, his gaze caught somewhere between want and wonder.

  “I have never felt that way before,” he finally admits. “What are you doing to me, wife?”

  I shake my head. I don’t know what either of us is doing.

  “I cannot unknow this feeling,” War continues. “You were right. Love is far more than longing. It’s far more than anything I imagined.”

  Chapter 48

  The next morning I wake to extreme nausea.

  I slip out of War’s embrace as slyly as I can and shove a shirt and pants on. There’s no time for bras, underwear and shoes. I scramble barefoot out of the tent.

  Luckily, War’s tent is on the edge of camp, and I manage to make it to the outskirts before I sick myself, over and over.

  Now that my zombie guards are gone, there’s no one to witness this, except for maybe one guard in the distance, but he’s too far away to get a good look at me.

  Once I’m finished, I stagger a little ways away, then sit down hard on the ground, running my hands through my hair.

  My mind is quiet for a long time—so quiet, in fact, that when a thought slips in, it feels very, very loud.

  My period should’ve come by now.

  I take several deep breaths, even as my heart begins to race.

  I try to count off the weeks since I last bled, and I think I get as far back as six before I become unsure.

  We’ve done a lot of moving. It’s hard to keep track of the days here … but no, I think that even assuming I over-counted, my period should still be here.

  My unease now pools low in my gut.

  I pinch my temples and breathe slowly in and out.

  Don’t panic, don’t panic. There must be some simple explanation.

  Maybe it’s the stress of all this traveling and the constant war. Maybe my body is in shock. Maybe that has simply delayed my period.

  I almost relax. The explanation is nearly plausible.

  Just as I’m about to stand up, another loud thought drifts in. I try to shut it out. I try to ignore it, but it’s right there, sitting in front of me, unwilling to be overlooked.

  How many times has War been in you?

  My hands are beginning to shake.

  Fuck, I think I am starting to panic.

  The nausea, the awful way food tastes and smells, the fatigue that’s plagued me, and the missed period—none of it is normal.

  I cover my eyes with a shaky hand.

  How many times has War been in you?

  Dozens of times. He’s been in me dozens and dozens of times.

  Dear God, I-I might be pregnant.

  Stress could be an explanation for the fatigue and the late period, but not the food aversions. Not the nausea.

  I could simply be sick. I really could, but …

  Pregnancy is a more logical explanation.

  I drop my hand from my eyes. For a long time I sit there in the foliage at the edge of camp, caught between horror and laughter.

  This is what happens when people have sex, Miriam. Particularly sex with super virile god-men.

  I put my head in my hands.

  Pregnant. I might actually be pregnant. With War’s kid.

  Holy balls.

  The longer I think about it, the more certain I grow.

  A horseman of the apocalypse knocked me up.

  A disbelieving laugh slips out of me … then another little laugh slips out. I begin to laugh in earnest. I don’t know when exactly my laughter turns into sobs, only that eventually I can feel tears slipping between my fingers and my body is heaving.

  I’ve been crying for maybe five minutes when I hear those familiar, powerful footfalls approach me from behind.

  “Wife,” War says, his voice shocked. “What are you doing out here?”

  I want to curl in on myself and die. I can’t even have a moment alone to process this?

  “Miriam,” he says, coming around to my front, his voice thick with concern.

  He kneels next to me and pulls my hands from my face. His gaze passes over me, like maybe I might be injured.

  “What happened?” he says. “Did someone hurt you?”

  Now my sobs morph back into laughter—sad laughter. My mournful eyes go to his. What am I supposed to say?

  War and I hadn’t really talked about children—not except for that one conversation that ended in a fight. We should’ve discussed this more, that’s for damn sure.

  I place my hand on my stomach, my fingers drumming along it. The horseman follows the movement, but there’s no spark of awareness there. Not like there would be if he were born human. There are cues like this that he wholly misses.

  I’m pregnant.

  I open my mouth to tell him, when I pause. I don’t know how he’ll react. That alone accounts for approximately half of my fear. We just got back together.

  The other half of my fear comes from being pregnant. With a horseman’s offspring.

  Fuck me and my poor life choices.

  I stare at War, then his mouth. He kills everyone. Everyone.

  And the last time I even came close to discussing whether he’d had children with any of the women he’d previously been with, he got offended. I assumed at the time I’d wounded his pride, but maybe there’s something else to the conversation, something dark that would frighten me.

  I’m being ridiculous. The horseman cares for me. He’d care for a baby if it was ours.

  I think.

  I mean, he reluctantly saved Mamoon, but how many thousands of other children have died in his battles?

  Those aren’t good odds.

  I shake my head, giving him a wan smile. “I’m just tired, and I hate feeling sick.”

  The horseman’s brow is pinched. He looks legitimately concerned. “Spend the day resting. You need it, wife. I will have someone bring you a basin of water to keep yourself cool. No one but me will bother you.”

  No one but me.

  I nod, biting the inside of my cheeks. Again, he doesn’t mention the doctor he threatened me with earlier, and I’m absurdly grateful for it. They would know in an instant what it’s taken my dense-ass all this time to figure out.

  I stare at War for a beat longer.

  I could still tell him. It might be alright. He’s promised to keep me from death.

  He’s made that promise to no one else.

  Would he extend it to our kid?

  Maybe—probably, but there’s a part of me that’s not sure, and that’s reason enough to keep my mouth shut. I’m unwilling to lose anyone else to the horseman.

  War reaches out and helps me up, and I pretend everything is alright when it’s not. God, it’s not.

  I’m motherfucking pregnant.

  I wait for War to fall asleep that night, just as I always do when I want to deceive him. I’m painfully predictable, and between that and my jumpy state today, I’m sure War can see right through me.

  Late that night, however, he slips into bed beside me, his hands moving over my skin like he’s trying to map me out all over again. I squeeze my eyes shut against his touch. It’s been hard enough faking high spirits today. It’s all I can do to act as though I’m asleep.

  Eventually his hands still and his breathing deepens. Only then do I allow myself to really think about my situation again.

  Pregnant …

  What am I supposed to do?

  Either I tell War, or I don’t, but if I don’t … I can’t stay here, where he will eventually find out.

  What’s the worst that could happen if I tell the horseman?

  He could lump our ch
ild with the rest of humanity, the part he wants to purge the world of.

  The thought of a father killing his own child seems so preposterous that I want to laugh, but is it? Truly? War is way more comfortable killing people than he is sparing them. It’s only my own foolish belief in War’s goodness that makes me think he wouldn’t hurt our child.

  That same foolish belief led me to think I could save the people of Mansoura—but the city still fell. And that same belief caused me to beg War to spare various people. And he did spare Mamoon, but what were his parting words then?

  Don’t ask this of me again, wife. You will be denied.

  I turn on my back and stare up at the canvas ceiling.

  He didn’t raise the dead that one time …

  My argument sounds weak, even to my own ears. Wanting something to be true doesn’t make it true.

  I blow out a breath.

  What would old Miriam have done—the Miriam who never met War?

  To save her family from threats?

  She would have done whatever was necessary.

  I’ve lost everyone I loved. If all War knows of love is longing, then all I know of it is loss.

  Only now, there’s a tiny new someone. Someone I could still lose.

  I won’t let that happen. Not again.

  No matter my feelings for War, it would be naïve of me to assume the best of him after everything I’ve seen him do. War’s a good lover—maybe even a good partner—but a good father?

  I don’t know, and I’m not going to risk finding out.

  Taking a shaky breath, I lean over and kiss his lips. His arm comes up around me and he rubs my back. “Mmm … my wife.”

  Something thick lodges itself in my throat.

  I slip away from him then.

  “Where are you going?” he mumbles.

  I hesitate. “Just … going to the bathroom.” Not entirely implausible. Everyone at camp goes to the bathroom outside.

  Quietly, I grab the things I need, and then I leave the tent.

  My heart feels like it’s crumbling in on itself.

  I don’t consider saddling a horse. Not when the corrals are usually guarded.

  I’ll head out by foot until I get to the nearest town War’s army swept through. Surely I can grab a bike there—maybe even one with a small trailer hitched to it. I might have a chance then.