My alarm wars with this horrifying giddiness. It’s the same emotion I felt when I heard a rumor that Tom Becker, my high school crush, wanted to ask me out. Turned out, he wanted to ask out Sarah (such is life—it just loves to kick you in the happy sacs), but for a blissful twenty-four hours, I felt like baby angels were fluttering around in my stomach.

Just like I do right now.

I’ve had a decent amount of whiskey, but not enough to block out the sober realization that enjoying Pestilence’s gaze on my naked body is decidedly not an appropriate reaction.

He rubs his face, looking weary and in pain, just how a man recovering from gunshot wounds ought to. Lifting his drink, he downs the second glass he poured for himself (which consisted of at least three shots of hard liquor). He grabs the bottle of Red Label and his now-empty glass and stands, his legs a little shaky.

He grabs the door handle, then pauses, his back to me. “Don’t try to run,” he warns over his shoulder. “I’d hate to catch you. Enough blood has been spilled today.”

Chapter 21

I got Pestilence shitfaced.

That much is clear by the time I’m done bathing. I find him sprawled out on the couch, the now nearly-empty bottle of whiskey in his hand, his glass nowhere to be found.

When a horseman falls, he falls hard.

His head rolls to me. “You were right,” he says, holding up the bottle. “My mind is altered.”

Well, at least he’s still perceptive.

He stares at the label for a second. “Doesn’t even taste that bad anymore.”

How many hell points did I just gain, getting this guy drunk?

When his gaze returns to me, his eyes drop to my clothes. The look he gives them can’t be complimentary.

I managed to fish out an outfit from the closet in the master bedroom. By all appearances, the owners were an older, well-to-do couple. The man liked his khakis pressed and pleated, and the woman liked her clothes to drape and glitter.

I’m practically swimming in the slinky black top I wear, and I’ve had to cinch the pair of studded purple jeans to within an inch of their life to keep them from sliding off.

It was the best I could do.

I continue past Pestilence, heading for the kitchen, my stomach cramping with hunger. I pass Trixie along the way; the horse has managed to lay himself down in a side room, getting blood all over the owners’ throw rug.

Definitely going to leave this place looking like a crime scene.

The kitchen tile is chilly against my bare feet when I enter the room.

Now to see if this place has anything to eat.

I only have to open the pantry to realize there’s plenty. The deep shelves are nearly spilling over with canned and jarred goods, dried grains, and a staggering stash of liquor. The two of us could hunker down here for a good several weeks if we needed to—not that Pestilence would ever stay stationary for that long.

As I rummage around, grabbing pasta noodles and a can of red sauce, the horseman limps over to a chair in the kitchen. He’s rapidly healing now, the exposed bullet wounds looking more like red, pitted scars than bloody holes. He’s shrugged off his tattered shirt, and his sculpted, tapered torso is now fully on display.

He watches me for a long time, not saying anything as I begin boiling noodles and heating up the pasta sauce (electricity works here, woo!). It’s only after I finish preparing the meal and pull out another bottle of liquor (bourbon this time) that I join Pestilence at the table.

He doesn’t bother going for the plate of pasta I put in front of him, choosing instead to pour himself a generous helping of bourbon. He drinks deeply from it.

Dude’s cruising for a bruising the way he’s going at the alcohol.

He levels his gaze on me. “Why didn’t you leave me?” he asks, looking almost desperate for an answer. “You could have.”

My gut tightens in a queasy way, and I forget that I have a steaming plate of pasta right in front of me.

He keeps circling back to this damn subject. I had hoped he’d let it go.

“Were you afraid I’d find you and hurt you?” Pestilence presses.

I could lie. He probably wouldn’t realize I’d fed him a fib. The only problem is that no good excuse is coming to me.

I open my mouth, then I choose instead to pour myself another drink. What the hell—he’s not doing this sober; I shouldn’t have to either.

Taking several deep swallows, I down the bourbon, then set the empty glass down hard on the table.

“I don’t know,” I answer, pouring myself another drink before I set the bottle aside. “That’s the truth.” I stare at my scabbed wrists. “Back in Vancouver, all I could think of was helping those people who’d been hurt in the chaos.” I take a breath and forge on, my eyes reluctantly rising to his turbulent blue ones. “And once we landed on the beach, all I could think of was helping you.”

He frowns at me. If he was looking for solace in my explanation, I gave him none.

“Why did you come back for me?” I ask. “Back in Vancouver.”

He looks affronted by the question. “You are my prisoner. I do not mean to let you go.”

“You pushed me off your horse,” I state.

His expression gives me nothing.

“You did that so that I wouldn’t get shot, didn’t you?” I ask, peering at him.

If Pestilence is disturbed by the fact that I stayed with him and tended to his wounds (or tried to at least), then I’m most unnerved by the fact that he spared me from pain.

“You’re no good to me dead, Sara.”

“Why is that?” I ask, searching his face. “Why am I alive and here with you while your other attackers lie dead in the streets of Vancouver?”

His mouth tightens. “Because I deemed it so.”

I take another drink of my bourbon. “That’s not an answer.”

“It’s the only one you’re going to get.”

Damn him, this question is going to drive me mad.

Begrudgingly, I turn my attention to the pasta, swirling my fork in the noodles and scooping up a bite. As soon as it hits my tongue, I take a moment to savor the pasta.

Lord Almighty, I’d forgotten how good food is when you have a little liquor in your system. If I’m not careful, that two weeks’ worth of food is going to be polished off by the end of the night—particularly if everything else tastes as good as this does.

Across from me, the horseman’s gaze is riveted to my mouth. He tears his gaze away to look down at his plate. Lifting his fork, he tries to take a bite himself, but the thin pasta noodles slide uselessly between the metal tines.

I can’t help it, I laugh. Getting up, I come over to his side of the table. He glances at me, his eyes bright and perhaps a little vulnerable. I think the alcohol is getting to us both.

Leaning over his shoulder and trying not to notice how pretty his torso is (for shame, Sara, he’s still hurt), I take the hand that’s holding the fork.

“What are you doing?” he asks, staring at our joined hands. There’s a note in his voice …

“Here, turn your fork like this.” Awkwardly, I maneuver the utensil in a circle. “Then scoop.” I lift the fork, strands of pasta now wrapped around it. “This is how you eat it.”