Pestilence (The Four Horsemen Book 1)

by Laura Thalassa

  The horseman flashes me a purely masculine smile, enjoying my exploration. He sinks back down onto me, lifting my shirt to expose the skin of my belly.

  I shiver at the feel of the chilly air along the band of bared flesh, but then Pestilence’s warm hands are moving over it, and his lips are claiming it kiss by kiss.

  “Once again, I have you to thank for protecting me—saving me,” he says against my skin.

  Saving, that’s a big word coming from him, the man who is impervious to death and who believes he is too powerful to need rescuing—or at least he used to believe that. I don’t know when things shifted in his mind, only that they have.

  “Tell me, dear Sara,” he continues, “how might I repay you?”

  I shake my head, staring up at him. “That’s not something you ever need to repay me for. I didn’t do it to make you owe me. I did it because I care about you.”

  His eyes find mine, soft and bright and burning with so much … love.

  Or am I imagining this too? All I know is that the look is too tender to be lust and too passionate to be kindness or compassion.

  No, my eyes aren’t deceiving me. Now and only now am I seeing his feelings for what they truly are.

  Love.

  I have bound this man to me. I’ve cultivated a very human appetite in him, and this is the result. Love.

  I should be frightened at the thought, but a strange sort of thrill rushes through me.

  This time, it’s Pestilence that takes the lead. His hands rove over me, tossing away my blood-soaked clothes one piece at a time, his touch strong and sure.

  My passion rises; along with it is this delicious uncertainty—like the horseman knows forbidden things that I don’t, and tonight he’s going to introduce them to me.

  I think Pestilence means to move slow—I know I do—but in the end our movements are hurried. The last of our clothes come off, and then it’s just leagues and leagues of glorious skin.

  His tanned arms bulge as he dips lower and lower down my torso, kissing a trail down my body. He pauses when he gets to my core, staring at it for a long second. Then he kisses that too.

  Involuntarily, my hips rise off the bed.

  Whoa.

  Pestilence spreads my legs wide, giving himself an unobstructed view of me. He drinks the sight in before moving back up my body settling his hips between my thighs.

  I feel him thick against me, his cock pressed against my entrance. Without warning, Pestilence drives himself inside. I nearly moan as he fills me, coating himself in my wetness.

  “I missed this,” he says as he pulls out. He thrusts into me hard again, his movements deep and demanding.

  I run my hands up his back, drawing out goosebumps along his flesh. “Me too.”

  Now that he’s this close to me, this alive, I finally, finally am able to banish the last thoughts of this morning to the hinterlands of my mind.

  Pestilence cups my face. “This is not fucking.”

  He chooses now to make his point?

  He stares at me as he works my core, and I realize he expects an answer.

  Can’t remember my own damn name at this point.

  “Mmm,” I say. That’s noncommittal enough.

  His hips piston in and out, in and out.

  “This is love-making,” he states—no, demands.

  He’s really latched onto that term with gusto.

  “Tell me your thoughts,” he all but orders. “I need to hear them.”

  How can he even think right now? But one look in his eyes has me sobering up real quick. This is important to him.

  “This isn’t fucking,” I agree, and I mean it. There’s far too much emotional subtext here between us. Each rushed touch is filled with longing, with lov—

  “It’s love-making,” Pestilence agrees, like the two of us are on the same page.

  I shake my head. Am I in denial? No? Yes?

  “Love-making is slower, more reverent …” That’s all I’ve got.

  The horseman’s brows furrow and his pace—damnit—his pace slows. But his thrusts deepen, his cock thick and throbbing inside me, and he unshutters his gaze so that everything he feels is right there staring down at me. He’s gazing me as though I’m beloved.

  His thumb brushes my cheekbone. “Like this?” he asks as he pumps slowly in and out of me.

  “Yeah,” I say, unnerved as hell because the full-force of that adoring gaze is staggering, “just like this.”

  His eyes dip to my lips, even as he moves deep inside me. “And if I kiss you, will I still be making love to you?”

  I nearly forget to breathe. “It’s all about your intent.”

  His mouth follows his gaze until I feel the sweet brush of his lips against mine. The very sweep of them as they pass over my mouth seems tender, loving. And when he coaxes my lips open and our tongues touch, that too seems to be done as though he reveres even the very taste of me.

  He pulls away. “Was my intent clear?”

  “Very.”

  Pestilence goes slow and deep for a while, but then, perhaps in response to my own feverish need for more of him, he begins to speed up, his thrusts becoming fast and rough.

  “Want to keep making love to you, but I cannot resist this need—”

  “Then don’t.”

  My words are permission enough. He takes my mouth again, and this time his kiss is savage. His pace doubles on itself, as though he can’t help but move deeper, faster, until the headboard is rocking against the wall.

  I twine my legs around his, needing him to touch as much of me as possible.

  Each stroke makes me burn hotter and brighter. It’s like I unleashed a storm. I guess that’s what you get when you fit a force of nature into the body of a man.

  His eyes lock with mine. The moment stretches on and on. Something passes between us, something I won’t put a name to, but something that comes from me every bit as much as it comes from him.

  Something that worries me deeply.

  I hold on until I can no longer, but that look. I’m powerless against it.

  With a cry, I come, sensation lashing through me as I call out his name. He bellows as I tighten around him, his own climax riding on mine. Pestilence grips my hands in his, pinning them to the bed as his harsh final thrusts batter against me.

  And then the moment’s over.

  Pestilence gathers me to him, and even after he’s no longer inside me, he still seems keen to keep me close.

  His lips brush my forehead. “I like making love to you, Sara Burns.”

  My stomach somersaults.

  “I think it might be my new favorite thing in the world, next to this.” His hold briefly tightens.

  I run my hand over his chest and down his abs, smiling softly. “You prefer this to my mad conversation skills?” I tease.

  “Ask me again tomorrow when we’re in the saddle,” he says, grinning. “I’m sure my answer will change.”

  That smile! The sight of it causes my breath to hitch.

  “You’re just saying that to get on my good side.”

  “Sara, you only have good sides. I’m saying this because each moment with you is my new favorite.”

  You’d think I’d start to get used to his flattery, but like always, Pestilence’s words have a way of overwhelming me.

  The two of us are quiet for a while, and I’m blissfully happy simply laying against him, enjoying how his hand lazily strokes my back.

  But the longer I lay there, the more worrisome my thoughts become. This morning bubbles back up, even more gruesome now that Pestilence is in my arms and I can feel the weight of my emotions pressing in from all sides.

  These attacks will keep happening. I know it as certainly as I’m sure Pestilence does. I’m not sure why this is some sobering revelation now. I was, after all, one of those people who tried to take him out. Of course it’s going to keep happening.

  Humankind is desperate enough, stupid enough, courageous, self-sacrificing enough�
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  Vindictive enough.

  Because at the end of the day, even if humans can’t stop him, they can at the very least make him regret landing on God’s green earth.

  They. The pronoun stops me cold. That last thought, I had said they, not we. I cut myself out of the group.

  It’s another one of those moments, where the axis of my world tilts.

  This whole time I’ve been so focused on how I’ve changed the horseman that I haven’t been paying attention to how he’s changed me.

  “I’m not your prisoner,” I whisper.

  Pestilence’s touch stills. He doesn’t respond.

  “I’m not,” I insist. “Not anymore.” I’m drawing a line in the sand.

  The edge of his mouth curves up. “Accept my proposal then.”

  His mood is light—sex has a way of doing that—but I’m in a somber mood.

  “I’m serious, Pestilence. Earlier today I stole a man’s gun and threatened him with it. I would’ve killed for you if I needed to.” That admission hurts coming out. “So no, I am not your prisoner,” I reiterate, “not any longer.”

  For a long moment, he says nothing.

  “Alright,” Pestilence finally agrees. “You’re no longer my prisoner.”

  The truth is, I don’t think either of us knows what I am. I may no longer be his prisoner, but I doubt I could freely walk away from him either. At this point, I’m conceding to the realization that I don’t want to walk away, that I care for this terrible, wonderful being.

  “What’ve you done to me?” I whisper, searching his face.

  I set out to destroy this man, not to protect him.

  “The same thing you have done to me, I imagine,” Pestilence says, brushing a lock of my hair aside. “You want your people to live, but you’re unwilling for me to be harmed. I want your people to die, but I cannot harm you. Each of us is trapped between our minds and our hearts.”

  “It’s not the same,” I say, hoarsely. “You’re only saving me because God sent you a sign.”

  Pestilence brushes a kiss against my temple. He’s shockingly good at cuddling.

  “God might’ve interceded on your behalf once,” he says, “but He hasn’t needed to since. You are mine, and nothing—nothing—will change that.”

  Chapter 42

  We’re out by dawn, and it isn’t long after that Pestilence starts prodding me to recite another poem.

  What are the chances that I’d find a man who likes poetry?

  Since he liked “The Raven,” I dredge up “Lenore.”

  “‘… Come! let the burial rite be read—the funeral song be sung! An anthem for the queenliest dead that ever died so young …’”

  I don’t even get all the way through the end of the second stanza of Poe’s “Lenore” before I realize that Pestilence isn’t paying attention. And after he made such a fuss about hearing a poem, too.

  “And so,” I continue, “the banging chick Lenore died and people apparently weren’t super sad because she was the shit and they hated her for that and now you want to kill everyone because we’re all A-holes of epic proportions.”

  I pause, waiting for Pestilence to say something, anything, but he doesn’t.

  I sigh.

  The horseman strokes my belly absently with his thumb, lost in thought.

  “Have you thought about children?” he says, rousing from his reverie.

  The question takes me by surprise. “I’m sorry?”

  “Children,” he repeats.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “We’ve had unprotected sex—twice. I may be new to these parts, but even I know the purpose of reproduction is to reproduce.”

  A sick wave of vertigo washes over me. I put a hand to my head.

  I hadn’t once thought about using protection.

  And now …

  Oh, shit.

  “Can that happen?” I ask. “Between us, I mean.”

  He’s not human, I reassure myself, and a bit of my unease retreats. Biologically, we’re not programmed the same way.

  Right?

  “I don’t see why it can’t,” he says. “I can eat and drink and make love just like a mortal. Perhaps I can sire a child just like one too.”

  Whelp, there goes my nice, calm morning.

  “But you don’t know?” I ask, my voice rising.

  There’s a brief silence, then, “Sara, I sense you’re afraid of the possibility.”

  Ding—ding—ding! You guessed correctly.

  He continues. “For a woman who so eagerly takes my flesh into hers—”

  Jesus. My cheeks heat.

  “—you’re awfully reluctant to deal with everything else that comes with the act.”

  I am, aren’t I? But in my defense, we’re talking about a child.

  He would protect it, just as he has you.

  That’s beside the point, brain. Don’t be an idiot on me now.

  Awesome, I’m debating with myself. Pretty sure that makes me certifiably crazy.

  “Have you thought about it?” I ask Pestilence, rather than addressing his comment.

  “I have.”

  I wait, but he doesn’t say more.

  “And?” I finally prompt.

  “And I find the possibility … thrilling.”

  It thrills him? My lady parts are waaaay too happy about that.

  “As you might imagine,” he says, “my excitement greatly disturbs me. I am killing your kind. What happens if I am father to one?”

  I really want to clear my throat because, uh, dude’s also banging one, and isn’t that reason enough?

  “It could be immortal,” I say, though I’m more asking this than anything else.

  “It could be,” he agrees, and my stomach bottoms out at that.

  I could give birth to a deity-thingy. A godspawn.

  Nope. Nope, nope, nope. Noooooooooope.

  This conversation is quickly going from uncomfortable waters to my-vagina-is-mutinying-it-doesn’t-matter-that-you’re-sex-on-legs-well-okay-maybe-it-does-a-little-nevermind-my-vagina-is-cool-with-it.

  That’s what happens when you’re upsettingly pretty. My libido gets stupid—correction, stupider (because let’s face it, on a normal day my libido is still a bimbo).

  “But it could also be mortal. Human,” he says. “And I will have created it, I who have been tasked with the destruction of your kind.”

  That boy out there has seen a lot of human nature, the bulk of it ugly. He’s only now seeing the beauty of it, and largely through you. … Show him humanity is worthy of redemption.

  Ruth’s final words ring in my ears.

  Pestilence is straddling two warring natures—his divine one, which demands we all die, and his mortal one, which doesn’t want to kill us, perhaps it even wants to save us … And each day that he’s with me, his mortal nature strengthens. I am strengthening it. The thought fills me with no little wonder.

  “So, what are you going to do about it?” I ask.

  His lips brush the shell of my ear. “What shall come to pass is to be seen. One thing is certain: I cannot stay away from you.”

  My stomach clenches at that.

  Nor I you.

  I’m debating whether I should state my opinion when Pestilence’s hold tightens on me. I look up to him, but he’s staring ahead of us.

  I follow his gaze, and my eyes widen. In the distance, between the boarded up buildings that speckle the sides of the highway, is a sea of people all dressed in white.

  As we get closer, I stare in wonder at the hordes of them. They line the street, their bodies bowed in supplication.

  Bowed for Pestilence.

  They waited for him, willingly giving up their lives for this demonstration.

  I glance at the horseman just in time to see his upper lip curl in disgust. “Praying to false idols,” he says. “They deserve the plague that will take them.”

  Did I think even a second ago that I was making inroads on his bloodlust? Ap
ologies, I was mistaken.

  “The same one I deserve?” I say.

  “You were touched by the hand of God,” he responds smoothly.

  Four more white-robed people stand in the middle of the road, obstructing our way. One of them is an older man with crazy eyes and ashen hair. Next to him are three youthful, beautiful women.

  When we get close enough, the man steps forward, ushering Trixie to a halt. I can feel Pestilence seething at my back, but the horseman doesn’t try to get his mount to move again.

  “I, the Prophet Ezekiel, come to you in our hour of darkness,” the man says. “I give unto you, the Conqueror, these three women to have and to hold.”

  To have and to hold?

  Ick.

  Ezekiel looks so magnanimous about his offer too, like you should give him a cookie for the effort he went through to procure these women.

  The holy roller comes forward, the women at his heels. Something dark and possessive rises in me at the way the women are looking at Pestilence. They seem a little too eager to be the horseman’s servants.

  “What is this?” Pestilence asks, his gaze sweeping over the sea of robed men and women.

  “We have long awaited your arrival,” crazy-eyed Ezekiel says.

  Behind me, the horseman grunts.

  “And them?” Pestilence juts his chin to the women.

  “They are yours,” Ezekiel says.

  “What am I supposed to do with them?” Pestilence asks, his brows pinching in confusion. Out of the six of us here, he’s clearly the only one who is not understanding the delicate subtext of this situation.

  He wants you to take them to Bonetown. Obviously.

  But I keep my mouth shut because I really want a now slightly uncomfortable Ezekiel to spell it out himself.

  “Whatever it is you please,” the prophet (ha!) says smoothly. His eyes flick to me just as Pestilence tightens his grip on my torso. I see Ezekiel smother a frown.

  Awww, was he hoping the horseman would trade up? Too bad Pestilence enjoys his old model just fine.

  “If you were me, what would you do with them?” the horseman asks.