You’d been ready to share your hot chocolate with him, Sara.

But apple pie is a cut above even hot chocolate.

He’ll just take a bite.

He won’t even like it, he’s just trying to prove a point.

Wordlessly, I push the pie over to his side of the table.

The horseman stares down at the pie for a moment before gingerly scooping out a forkful of it. He brings it to his lips like he’s done this a thousand times before, and after a brief hesitation, he takes a bite of the apple pie.

I watch him with a strange sort of fascination. It takes a helluva lot to distract me from pie, but Pestilence eating food for the first time just happens to be that. His face stays expressionless the entire time.

He doesn’t like it. Praise Jesus, he doesn’t like it.

He sets his fork down and looks at me, his face serious. “You were right.”

I was? About what? My forehead crinkles in confusion.

“Not needing something doesn’t mean you can’t enjoy it.” With that, he picks his fork back up and scoops out another bite.

“What are you doing?” I’m embarrassed at how alarmed my voice sounds.

“Eating.”

“So … you like it?” I probe.

“Do you want a formal apology?” Pestilence asks me. “Would you like for me to admit I was wrong?”

I’d like for you to not enjoy my stolen pie, thankyouverymuch.

“I thought you mentioned that food was a slippery slope into mortal depravity?” I say, sliding the pie pan back to my side of the table and taking a bite of it.

It’s a bit stale, and I prefer my pie hot, but it is, in a word, heaven.

The horseman drags the pie back to his side of the table. “I mused on the matter.” He scoops another forkful. Another bite just … gone to this beast. “Food in and of itself is not wicked.”

I slide the pan back to me. “Indulgence probably is.”

Now that I know he can eat food, the suspense is over. Just give me back my pie. That’s all I ask.

“Perhaps,” he agrees. It doesn’t stop him from continuing to eat the flaky dessert, and he happens to take the world’s biggest freaking bites.

The pie quickly disappears, most of it going to the man across from me, the man who doesn’t even need to eat.

This is such bullshit.

After he’s finished, Pestilence sits back in his seat, slinging one booted foot over his other knee. There’s something so terribly normal about this situation. A man and a woman sharing breakfast together. It’s easy to imagine the horseman without his golden crown and his armor and weapons. It’s easy to imagine him as just a man.

And that’s very, very dangerous.

“I was wrong,” he says softly, his blue eyes finding mine.

“About what?” I ask distractedly, scraping up the last of the crumbs from the bottom of the tin.

Yeah, I am that pathetic.

“Consumption.”

My eyes rise to his.

His stare is too direct. I don’t know what he wants from me.

I lift a shoulder. “Cool.”

Pestilence’s eyes go to my lips. “You use such strange language sometimes.”

This from a guy who calls the bathroom a latrine.

I break eye contact for no other reason than I’m noticing just how handsome he is when he’s kind.

My gaze drifts to the storm outside. It’s been raging this entire time. I know from experience that if it’s as cold as I think it is outside, the rainwater will burn like ice.

“Please don’t make us travel today.” The request just kind of slips out of me.

“Please?” His eyes alight with fire.

Crap.

He just loves that word.

His chair scrapes back. “Human, I think you just decided our day for us.”

Chapter 17

Eff the cold, and the horseman along with it.

My teeth chatter nonstop as Trixie Skillz trots ever forward. Even under my layers of clothes and the wool blanket I wear, my body won’t stop shaking.

I might be the one Canadian who can’t stand the cold. Everyone else is like, “Hey look, I can see the sun today, and even though it’s cold enough to freeze water, by God, I think this is T-shirt weather!” Meanwhile, I’m what happens when a human and an ice cube have a baby.

I’m pretty sure I was switched at birth.

“H-how much l-longer?” I ask, my shivers making a mess of my speech.

I’m going to get hypothermia and die out here. And wouldn’t that be ironic? Pestilence’s captive dies of exposure—not to the plague, but to the elements.

The horseman glances down at me from where he holds me fast against his unyielding metal armor. “I’m not sure,” he says. “You could ask nicely and help me decide.”

He means I could say please again and screw myself over.

“Or you can remain quiet and we can ride through the night.”

I swivel to face him. “Y-you are the m-most prideful jerk I-I’ve ever m-met!”

I face forward again, pulling my wet blanket closer around me.

Once this is all over, I’m moving to Mexico. I bet no one dies of the cold in Mexico.

If I thought Pestilence would react to my outburst, I was wrong. We continue on, the minutes passing laboriously. We pass a few settlements so small that if you sneezed you would’ve missed them. The storm lets up briefly, only to then redouble its efforts.

At some point throughout the day my shivers lessen, but it’s not because I’ve managed to warm myself up. Distantly I’m aware that this is bad. My fingers are stiff and hard to move, and my eyes keep drooping.

It’s only when my wool blanket slides off of me and onto the street that I catch Pestilence’s attention.

“I’m not going back for that,” he says.

I sway in my seat, my eyelids drifting closed.

I don’t care. I’m not sure whether I think it or say it, only that the horseman’s arm is suddenly the perfect place to rest my head.

I close my eyes, barely noticing how tense Pestilence is.

“Sara?”

“Mm?” I don’t open my eyes.

“Sara.”

Just going to drift off for a bit …

“Sara.” He turns my face towards him. I blink up at him as his gaze scours my features, lingering on my lips.

He begins to look alarmed. “You’re not alright.”

I’m not, am I?

I think I hear him curse under his breath, then he clicks his tongue, tightening his grip on me. Trixie begins to gallop, his hooves spraying icy water against my legs.

“Why didn’t you say anything?” Pestilence roars. Or maybe it’s the wind and rain that’s roaring …

“I’m s-supposed to suffer.”

He huffs, and I swear I hear him say, “Not like this.” But that’s ridiculous because I’m supposed to suffer exactly like this.

At the next turnoff, the horseman tugs on the reins, turning his steed down a muddy dirt path.

I glance up at him, rain and sleet plastering his hair to his face. So much for Pretty Boy’s earlier bath.

“W-where are we going?” I ask. My tongue feels thick and clumsy in my mouth.

“It seems I’ve once again underestimated just how fragile you are.”