My stomach squeezes at the sight and my skin feels clammy, like I’ve been caught doing something I shouldn’t.

The horseman glares at them all, a dark look on his face. That, more than anything, puts me on edge. The way Famine stares at them … like a panther sizing up prey.

All of a sudden, the horseman turns to me, and my heart skips a beat at the predatory look in his eyes.

“Well?” he says.

“Well what?” I ask.

“I was referring to you too. Dance.” He nods to the space ahead of us.

In this mockery of a party? I don’t think so.

“With who?” I say. “You?” I laugh, though the sound rings false. “I’m not just going to go out there alone. Dancing is for couples.”

I don’t actually believe that, but the thought of dancing right now makes me vaguely ill.

Famine arches an eyebrow, a slow, wicked smile spreading across his face. Rather than answering me, he reaches out a hand.

I eye it, then him, then it again. “What are you doing?”

“You wanted a partner.” He says it slowly, like I’m the town idiot.

“You can’t be serious.”

The horseman stands, strapping his weapon to his back once more. He moves in front of me, then extends his hand once more.

Holy shit. He is serious.

I stare at that hand. The petty part of me wants to say no, just to enjoy humiliating the Reaper for a few seconds, but the rational, frightened part of me knows that making a mockery of this man won’t end well for me.

So I take his hand.

This must be another one of the horseman’s tricks. But then he leads me onto the dance floor, where dozens of people are stiffly dancing. They give us wide berth.

“Do you even know how to dance?” I ask.

In response, Famine pulls me to him, placing a hand on my waist. The other clasps my hand.

“You act as though these irrelevant human activities of yours are somehow hard.” As the horseman speaks, he begins to lead me in a dance. It’s nothing formal or structured, and yet his movements have an expert flow to them. He moves like a river over rocks, and again I’m reminded of his otherness.

Haltingly, I follow the Reaper’s lead. I don’t know where to put my free hand. Eventually I rest it on top of an armor covered shoulder.

For a few minutes I simply stare at my feet, trying to figure out the steps. But the more I look at my boots, the more I get distracted by the dark handle of Famine’s dagger.

“They’re not going to disappear,” Famine says, his voice haughty.

I jolt, feeling like I got caught red-handed. I glance up at the horseman, wide-eyed.

“Your feet,” he clarifies.

I stare into his luminous green eyes. The candlelight makes them shine like gemstones.

“This is ridiculous,” I murmur, mostly to drag my mind away from the fact that the candlelight is doing more than just making his eyes glow. Every pleasing plane of his face is highlighted by the light, and his caramel hair shines nearly as brightly as his armor.

“This is your world and your customs,” he says. “I’m merely indulging in them.”

Right about now, I’m supposed to snap out some cunning retort, or look away and disengage. I do neither. I’m pinned under that spellbinding gaze of his.

The intense way Famine is looking at me makes me feel like there’s lightning in my veins. And I can’t help but notice how, despite the cruel curve of his lips, the Reaper is unimaginably handsome.

Finally, I tear my eyes away, staring at everyone and everything else but him.

“Uncomfortable?” he asks, squeezing my hand.

“More than a little,” I admit.

“Good. It means you haven’t forgotten what I am.”

I press my lips together. He thinks that’s the reason I’m uncomfortable? If only he realized that despite how awful he is, I’d still be half down to fuck the smirk off his face. And not for the sake of humanity. Staring at him makes me forget what a shitty person he is.

His gaze stays on me as we move, and I fight to ignore it. It helps that every few seconds I accidentally step on Famine’s feet. That’s distracting enough to ignore his gaze.

“Has anyone told you that you are complete shit at dancing?” he asks, drawing my attention back to him.

“I can always count on you for a compliment,” I say sarcastically.

“Why are you so terrible at this?” Famine asks, curious.

“I was paid to fuck people, not to teach them the samba.”

The song ends, and I pull my hands back. The Reaper, meanwhile, is slower to release me, his hand lingering on my waist.

His fingers press in, and he pulls me towards him. “Stay close,” he whispers into my ear.

I narrow my eyes at him. “Why?”

The corner of his mouth curves up. After a moment, his gaze lifts from me, taking in the rest of the room. And just like that, my pulse begins to gallop away.

He brushes past me, returning to his chair, and I’m left on the dancefloor, staring after him.

“What does he have over you?” a male voice asks.

I nearly jump at the sound. I glance over at the man who’s crept up to my side. It’s one of Famine’s guards—I think it might be the same one who was staring at my legs earlier.

“What?” I ask, confused.

“What does he have over you?” the man repeats. “Or are you with him by choice?”

I scrutinize him. “Why do you care?” I say.

The man lifts a shoulder in response, his gaze flitting over my face. He’s taken a little too much interest in me.

I edge away from him.

The Reaper lounges in his chair, one leg thrown over his knee, his fingers drumming along the armrest. His agitation is back. The horseman stares at the room full of people as though they sicken him. It doesn’t seem to matter that he forced them here, or that many of them appear worried.

My heart is racing and my breath is coming fast. I’m acutely aware of the dagger in my boot.

Next to me, Famine’s guard lingers, like he has more to say but he needs to recapture my attention.

I turn to him. “What are you still doing next to me?”

Ugh, I sound like the Reaper. That infernal bastard is rubbing off on me.

The guard opens his mouth, his expression caught somewhere between ire and defensiveness.

“Enough,” Famine says, interrupting us. His voice booms across the room.

The music cuts off and the people end their chatter. In the silence, the hairs along my arms rise.

Finally the guard moves away from me—though he does look reluctant to do so—taking up post near one of the doorways.

I glance over at Famine, who still sits in his chair, his scythe in his hand. That horrible feeling in the pit of my stomach is back.

“Enough of this farce,” he says softer now, his voice velvety and sinister. “You all know who I am. You all seek to placate me. But I see your excess, I recognize the hunger and greed that drives you all. It sickens me.”

Raising his scythe, he pounds its base against the floor.

Beneath our feet, the concrete floor cracks, fissures opening along its surface, each one spreading out from the Reaper like the rays of a sun.

People let out surprised screams and many begin to rush towards the doors, but Famine’s guards are barring the exits.