War (The Four Horsemen Book 2)

by Laura Thalassa

  The horseman pulls me tighter against him.

  “I thought I was going to die,” I tell him, my voice hoarse. I was certain of it.

  War glances down at me with his terrible eyes. “Not today, wife,” he vows. “Not ever.”

  Though the battle rages on, War flees the city, clutching me to his chest.

  I’m not sure what to make of the situation, only that something has shifted between us.

  My body is still shaking from battle, and I’m so tired.

  I sway a little in the saddle, just remembering that final fight. The bite of steel, the breath of fire, the smoke filling my lungs—I cough at the memory, and once I start, I can’t seem to stop. I cough and cough. My entire body shakes with the effort and my vision clouds.

  “Stay with me, wife,” War commands. There’s such authority in his voice that I force my eyes to flutter open. I hadn’t realized I’d closed them …

  Another bout of coughing racks my chest. The air is dry and my throat is dry and I’m not taking in enough oxygen.

  I feel more than see War’s eyes on me this time. He curses beneath his breath, then moves his hand out from under my shirt—only to wrap it around my throat.

  For a moment, I panic. I’ve just been in battle after all. Having a hand at your throat should mean you’re going to get choked out. But this is War, War who insisted only moments ago that I wasn’t going to die.

  And his touch is so gentle—almost comforting. My eyes close and I release a shaky breath, leaning back into him. He brushes a kiss along my temple, and the two of us ride like that.

  Whatever power the horseman wields, it’s so subtle that I don’t feel it at first. But the longer we ride and the longer his calloused hand presses against my throat, the less I need to cough.

  When we arrive at camp, people watch us with startled expressions. War and I aren’t supposed to be back. The horseman cuts through our settlement, charging forward until we arrive at his tent.

  War hops off his steed, then grabs me by the waist. He pulls me down and into his arms.

  And then his sinful lips are back on mine, heated and demanding. I lose myself in the taste of him as he scoops me up and begins carrying me. I hear the rustle of canvas, and then War is setting me on my feet inside his tent.

  He looks at me and things are different.

  He’s different. The violence he carries around like a cloak is gone. My horseman seems … human.

  Not looking away from me, War removes all of his armor, then all of his clothes, his expression serious.

  He comes over to me and now it’s my turn. His hands are deft as he pulls off my shirt, then my pants. I just sort of stand there. We’ve undressed dozens of times, but not like this. Not with the horseman looking at me with so much life in his eyes.

  Once I’m naked, he lowers us both to his bed. I’m dirty and bloody and weak with fatigue. This doesn’t ring of romance.

  But when he presses my body to his, there’s nothing about it that feels sexual. Intimate—yes—but not sexual.

  I take a ragged breath, my eyes going to War’s. “What are we doing?”

  “You almost died,” he responds. There’s a wild edge to the horseman’s features. He lifts a shaky hand and tucks a strand of my brown hair behind my ear. “If I hadn’t rode in when I had …” Rather than finishing the sentence, he pulls me towards him, pressing a kiss to my lips, as if to make sure that I am still indeed, alive.

  “Isn’t that why you’re here?” I say softly, when the kiss ends. “We’re all supposed to die.” My throat burns as I speak.

  “Not everyone—not you.”

  My eyelids are heavy.

  I’m so tired. So, so tired. Whether it’s exhaustion from battle, smoke inhalation, blood loss, or War’s healing magic, my body is demanding sleep.

  “I’m still human,” I murmur. I’m always going to be part of the problem in the horseman’s eyes.

  “Yes,” War says. “You are painfully human. Your bones want to break, your skin wants to bleed, your heart wants to stop. And for the first time ever, I am desperate for none of those things to happen. I have never known true fear until now.”

  The admission is so raw, so cutting, that I pull back from him a little, just to drink his expression in.

  The horseman healed me once before, right after I was attacked. I was just as close to death then. But for all of War’s concern then, he hadn’t acted like this. Whatever icy heart he was given when he came to earth, it’s beginning to thaw bit by bit. And now I’m catching a glimpse of the true man beneath it.

  I reach out and trace his lips. “You’re not as you seem,” I breathe, already drifting off.

  War kisses the tip of my finger. “You never were.”

  With those final words ringing in my ears, I slip off to sleep.

  I wake to the press of fingertips. They trail down my back, each one feeling sure and steady. The touch is so pleasant, so unexpected, that I arch into it.

  There’s a language to gestures. This one conveys a single emotion—

  Beloved.

  I squeeze my eyes tightly together, something thick lodging in my throat.

  It’s been … a long time since I felt that way. And with a man, never like this.

  I drag in a ragged breath when I remember the man behind the touch.

  War.

  But even with him, this is new. When I was attacked in my tent, he touched me with care, and since the deal we made, he’s touched me with desire and affection. This, however, this feels a lot like—

  I can’t even think the word. The entire idea of it is too scary—and too impossible.

  The horseman’s fingertips leave my flesh. A moment later, I feel the warm press of his lips against my back.

  Too much. My heart feels like it’s going to burst.

  I flip over, and my gaze meets War’s. His eyes have gone soft and deep.

  He strokes my hair. “For millennia I’ve craved this.” Human connection, he means. “For millennia it’s been just out of my reach.”

  Until now.

  My pulse is picking up. I’m still naked underneath War’s sheets, and with the horseman this close, I’m so aware of that fact. Excitement and fear are mixing together.

  I place a hand against his chiseled cheek. War turns his head, his lips brushing a kiss against my palm.

  Now it’s my turn to go soft on him. I’ve seen the horseman lustful, angry, determined, vicious. Seeing this doting side of him completely changes each one of my responses.

  “You undo me,” War says hoarsely.

  My stomach flutters at his words.

  A putrid smell outside briefly cuts through my soft thoughts.

  God, what is that stench? It’s not me is it?

  “What happened, Miriam?” War asks, drawing my attention back to him.

  His features have sharpened, and he’s back to looking like a creature who hunts humans.

  He wants to know about today. About why I was in a burning building, a dead phobos rider at my feet.

  I swallow a little. My throat still hurts and talking only makes it worse. “Uzair tried to kill me.”

  The horseman swears under his breath. “My riders are the worst of your kind. Effective, but utterly devoid of compassion.”

  Who is this man who speaks of compassion, and what has he done with War?

  “And you bested one of them in close combat,” the horseman continues. He sounds almost … impressed. War bows his head to kiss my neck again. “I hope you made Uzair’s death slow and painful.”

  I thread my fingers through his black hair. “That’s an awfully petty thing for a messenger of God to say.”

  He presses his lips against my skin, and my hand tightens on his thick locks, holding him close to me.

  “Even we horsemen have our moments.”

  I actually laugh at that. In response, he smiles against my neck. I feel that smile everywhere. I arch into him, my core aching.

  Need h
im. Need him so badly it hurts.

  War kisses my throat again, and this still isn’t normal between us. It’s too raw, too outside of simple want.

  “Touch me,” I whisper.

  “I am touching you,” he says, and damn him, that smile is pressed against my flesh again, and it’s making my body come alive.

  Do I have to spell it out?

  I take his hand and move it down my stomach, towards my—

  “You’re still healing,” he says, drawing his hand away.

  And now he cares more about tending to me than he does enjoying me? Who is this man?

  “I feel fine.” Or at least fine enough for what I have in mind.

  “You think I don’t want to?” War takes my hand and places it over his crotch. Since I fell asleep, he’s donned a pair of pants; that’s the only reason I’m not holding his cock in my hand at this very moment. As it is, it strains against the material.

  War leans in close. “It is taking everything in me not to peel off my pants and fuck that sweet pussy of yours, wife. Everything.”

  Dear God, if that little speech was supposed to dissuade me, it way missed its mark.

  “I have been crazed with emotions I have never felt today,” War continues. He has a wild edge to his eyes. “I am a man of action. I want nothing more than to feel you alive and wrapped around me. And I’m trying to resist, so I’d kindly ask for you to not try to break my limited willpower.”

  I release a shaky breath. A part of me wants to push the horseman to the edge, just to see what breaking him would be like, but a bigger part of me is hypnotized by this new side of War.

  He can change. He’s working on changing. For me and because of me. I hadn’t been sure before, but I am now. This is a seed I want to cultivate.

  So I back off, despite my raging hormones. (I mean, hey, I almost died. I think my survival should be rewarded with an orgasm or three, but that’s just my opinion.)

  I settle deeper into his bed. I’m still bloody, and I smell like smoke, and I’m sure I’m ruining the horseman’s sheets.

  “How did you know that I was trapped in the burning building?” I ask War. My voice comes out with a croak.

  Maybe I’m not as fine as I thought I was …

  It’s the thought that’s lurked in the back of my mind since he saved me.

  “I saw you running in the distance,” he says.

  I remember seeing War’s striking figure so far away. Too far away to believe he could see me, but apparently he had.

  “And I saw a man chase you inside,” he adds.

  Oh. Well then.

  A few women enter the tent just then, interrupting our conversation. With their entrance comes another gust of that putrid smell. I crinkle my nose, even as I clutch War’s blankets tightly to me. God, how I miss doors. And knocking. And privacy in general. It’s a distant dream now that I live in a city of tents.

  Between the women, they carry a basin filled with steaming water. They set the tub down, along with several towels, and step away. Their eyes look spooked, and they keep glancing behind them at something outside the tent.

  “Do you need anything else?” one of them asks, turning her attention from the tent flaps to me and War. Her eyes move curiously over me, taking in my bare shoulders and my dirty appearance and the fact that I’m in the horseman’s bed. A blush creeps across her cheeks.

  “That’s all.” War waves them away.

  Once we’re alone again, he nods at the tub. “Would you like a bath?”

  I would give my left tit for a bath.

  My blankets are off in an instant. It’s only as I get up, naked from head to foot, that I truly feel my fatigue. I sway a little from it. My throat burns, my lungs rattle, the sword wounds on my arm, neck, and torso sting, and my legs want to fold under me.

  I take a few shaky steps forward before the horseman comes over and scoops me up.

  “I can walk,” I protest.

  “Let me do this, wife,” he says, his lips close to my ear.

  Reluctantly, I let him carry me across the room to the bath. He sets me in the water, which is scalding.

  I melt into it.

  Swear nothing has felt this good in a long time.

  That’s not true though, is it? I’ve had many, many experiences with War that outshine this one. Just the thought has my cheeks flushing and my abdomen clenching.

  I really could use a happy-to-be-alive orgasm right about now, despite my fatigue.

  Leaning forward, I wrap my arms around my legs and turn my head so I can rest my cheek against my knees. My eyes flutter closed at the pleasant feel of it.

  I hear War settle down beside the tub then dip something into the water. A moment later, I feel the press of wet cloth against my back.

  My eyes open. “What are you doing?”

  “Washing my wife.”

  My back stiffens. We’re venturing into unfamiliar territory. There’s the sexual touches and the healing touches—those I’ve gotten used to. But allowing the horseman to bathe me is a new sort of intimacy.

  Up until now, I’d fought this off. Maybe I’m just too tired or maybe it was the revelation that there is still so much unsaid and undone between me and War. Whatever the reason, I don’t fight it this time.

  “Okay,” I say.

  War doesn’t respond to that, but I feel him drag the cloth up and down my back, carefully tracing around the wound at the back of my neck. The washcloth slips into the water, turning the warm liquid a little redder.

  Once he’s done with my back, he moves around to the front of the tub and begins to wash my arms, once again being careful to clean my sword wounds.

  “I have been a fool,” he admits.

  My eyes snap to his.

  “You’re not going to fight in any more battles, Miriam,” he says. It’s not a question.

  I pause at his words. No more battles?

  How to spread the word then?

  His eyes meet mine. “I won’t lose you,” he says vehemently.

  My throat thickens.

  “I can’t believe I ever allowed myself the luxury of thinking it couldn’t happen,” he adds, his gaze dropping back to my wounds. “Especially after you were attacked. I simply never thought He would allow—”

  Just then a soldier enters the tent. “War—” he begins.

  God Almighty! Is privacy dead?

  I cover what I can of myself.

  The horseman doesn’t look up from where he’s washing me. “Get out.”

  “But you haven’t raised the dead—”

  Awareness sharpens in War’s eyes. They lift from my skin, meeting mine once more. The horseman is a man of habit, and his most consistent habit is that at the end of every battle he raises his dead.

  I think of those few birds I released. How paltry my efforts were in the face of the horseman’s undead.

  War starts to stand, pulling away from me, his expression turning serious, calculating. I got the barest glimpse of this new man, one who has heart and compassion. I’m not ready to lose him so soon.

  I catch War’s hand.

  “Please don’t.” It comes out as a whisper. “Please War. All those people who survived—please don’t kill them.” I squeeze his hand tightly.

  He stares down at me, searching my face.

  Beyond him, the soldier shifts a bit impatiently at the entrance.

  War has no reason to listen to me now. I have nothing new and compelling to tell him that I haven’t already tried to, and I have nothing else to offer him that I haven’t already offered.

  But something about today has changed the horseman. I see it even now as he stares at me.

  “It will make no difference in the end,” he says, his eyes so brilliantly alive.

  I give him a meaningful look. “It will make a difference to me.”

  This is how you get me to love you, I told him in Arish. I have a feeling he’s remembering those words right now.

  The horseman stares at me
some more, then says over my shoulder to the man waiting, “Call the men in. Tonight, the dead will not rise.”

  The dead will not rise.

  I can hear my heart thundering.

  The soldier leaves, and we’re alone again.

  I try to take in a deep breath, but I’m breathless.

  I thought it was an easy promise to make, telling War that mercy was the key to my love. I hadn’t realized there was any truth to those words.

  Not until this moment.

  I stand, the water sloughing off of me. War gazes at my body, his eyes hungry. He’s still holding himself in check, but he was right earlier—he has limited willpower. And right now, I am going to break it.

  I step out of the tub and into the horseman’s arms, plastering my wet body against his. Immediately, his hand comes around my waist, the washcloth falling, forgotten, to the ground.

  He’s still kneeling, and for once I’m taller than him. His hands skim either side of my waist, and he dips his head, pressing a kiss to my stomach.

  I run my fingers through the horseman’s hair and tilt his head back, forcing him to look at me. I spend only a moment glancing down at War’s lips—and then I kiss him.

  The instant our mouths meet, I melt. He’s decadent, sinful, saintly.

  He breaks away from the kiss. “What have you done to me?” he whispers. “What have you done? Wife, wife, wife,” he murmurs against my skin, his lips moving lower. Down my throat and across my collarbones. He trails his mouth over my chest wound, which has now scabbed over, thanks to him. After a minute, his mouth continues on to my breasts.

  His hands tighten as he presses my arched back deeper into him. War’s mouth closes over a nipple, and a moan slips from my lips. I’ve never been this way with other men. I’ve never been able to let my guard down so much.

  “Ve lethohivaš,” he says.

  You intoxicate me.

  His tongue lashes over the tip of my breast, toying with me. I press myself deeper against him, needing more, so much more.

  All the touching, the kissing, the oral—none of it has been enough. Especially not now that War makes me feel beloved, and not when he looks at me with something like humanity in his eyes.