I can’t see his expression, and he doesn’t say anything in response, so I return to my seat, feeling like I overstepped, which is ridiculous in light of everything the two of us have been through.

Pestilence takes a tentative bite of the pasta. If I was hoping for some sort of amazing reaction, I’m sorely disappointed. He simply glowers at the dish as he chews.

“I shouldn’t be eating this.”

I don’t bother to ask him why not. I already know it’s his weird hang up on “mortal vices.” I think he’s finding out the hard way that despite how willing a horseman’s spirit is, even their flesh is weak.

Speaking of horseman …

“Where are your other three riders?” I ask. This is one of the many questions that haunt the world—where the other three horsemen were. It’s too much to assume that they’re somehow gone; if Pestilence exists, so do the others.

Pestilence pokes at his pasta before tentatively twisting his fork around on his plate. “My brothers still sleep,” he says, frowning as he takes another bite off his plate.

Sleep?

“Uh, when will they wake?”

He doesn’t look up. “When it is time.”

Go figure that even buzzed, Pestilence still manages to answer questions as cryptically as possible.

Despite feeling guilty about partaking in food and drink, the horseman makes quick work of his meal and most of his bourbon.

I move through the liquor considerably slower than him. I’m what you affectionately call a cheap date. If I can stretch my drinks out, I will.

I lean back in my seat. “After you arrived here on earth, did you also sleep?” There were, after all, five years where he was unaccounted for.

He nods, pushing his plate away.

I sort of want to ask him where he managed to sleep for five years undetected.

“Why sleep at all?” Why wait at all?

“There was the possibility …” He trails off, lost in some thought.

“What possibility?” I prod.

He rouses himself. “The possibility that humanity would redeem itself.” He grabs his glass and swirls it. “But alas, not even the End of Days can alter the depraved nature of your cursed kind.”

Ah, this spiel again. Just when I thought the horseman was done harping on humans for a while, too.

Pestilence lifts his cup up and stares at the little liquid that remains, his eyelids looking a little heavy. “This is poison,” he says, out of the blue.

“Mhm,” I agree. I mean, technically, it is.

His eyes slide to me. “Was that your plan all along? To poison me?”

Oh God, and now this poison-business. How idiotic must he think I am to try to poison an undying man?

“You’re the one pouring,” I say.

That logic seems to mollify him. Somewhat.

All of a sudden, Pestilence stands, grabbing his chair and dragging it around the table so that it’s next to mine. He sits on it backwards, unaware of just how sexy my traitorous eyes find him. He gives me one of his piercing stares.

I lean away from him nervously. “What?”

“I don’t know,” he admits. “I feel … something when I look at you.”

My mind flashes back to the bathroom and the heated expression on his face. A blush creeps up my neck, the alcohol making it burn hotter and spread wider than it would if I were sober. I force my eyes to stay on his face when all they really want to do is dip down to his torso.

“I cannot figure out what that something is,” he continues. “And hear me Sara, it is driving me mad.”

Join the motherfucking club. We’re taking applicants.

“You’re human,” he says. “I don’t like your kind. I’m not supposed to like you.”

I don’t breathe for a second.

Don’t ask the question, Burns. Don’t—

“But you do?” I say.

His eyes drop to my mouth. He touches my lower lip with his thumb, rubbing it gently. “God forgive me, I do.”

Chapter 22

I swallow, feeling that unnerving lightness in my belly. This close, Pestilence takes up my entire vision. I can see the remains of the bullet wound just above his collarbone, and his thick golden hair, which is still matted with blood and sea spray. It doesn’t at all take away from the glory of him. I can see the ocean in his eyes, his blue, blue eyes, and the thick lashes that surround them.

And now I’m staring at his mouth and that full upper lip that gives him a perpetually pouty look.

He has no idea how good looking he is. Scratch that—good looking is a term reserved for humans who are attractive, imperfections and all. This inhuman thing, with his angelic features, isn’t good looking, he’s blinding, breathtaking. He’s perfection incarnate. And isn’t that just cosmically unfair? He’s a harbinger of the apocalypse. He doesn’t need to be attractive, but he is.

His eyes continue to take in my lips. There’s something raw and powerful in his expression, like liquor has made him hunger for other forbidden things. Human things.

He moves his thumb over my lower lip again, and I feel that simple touch everywhere.

Lowering his hand, he leans in. I’m not sure he’s even aware that he’s doing it—moving towards the mouth he’s fixated on.

Over the course of our association, I’ve been close to Pestilence, but not like this.

Not like this.

He’s so close our breath is mingling.

My pulse hammers away at me until it’s all I can hear.

Tha-thump, tha-thump, tha-thump.

He’s going to kiss me.

That warm flush spreads out from my stomach.

Shouldn’t do this.

Can’t do it.

Won’t.

His hand slides to my neck, tilting my jaw up, his gaze still pinned to my lips.

Our mouths are so very close.

Just one taste, I reason. That’s not so bad, right? Just one taste. No one could blame me for being curious. This horseman is supposedly God’s justice and vengeance. How can I be doing anything wrong if I let His horseman touch me?

I half believe my insane musings. Right now, with the bourbon warming my insides and softening my resolve, I’ll bend just about any logic to let this happen.

Pestilence hesitates. Unlike me, I imagine he might be having one final moment to talk himself out of—rather than into—this.

In that one moment, I come to my senses.

My eyelids lower, and I stare at his lips.

“Please,” I whisper.

The hand on my neck presses into my skin, and then at once, it’s gone.

Spell’s broken.

“Please?” Pestilence pulls away to give me a look of disgust. “You say this to me now?” He runs a hand over his mouth and jaw, then looks around, like he’s waking from a dream.

He stands, and I can only stare up at him. I have nothing to say. No words to ameliorate the situation because I knowingly drove it here.

I begin to stand as well, but Pestilence places a hand on my shoulder to keep me in my seat, almost as though I were now the one pursuing him.

He sighs, suddenly looking every inch as exhausted as he should be, considering the day he had.

“It’s late, Sara,” he says. “You best get some sleep, we ride early tomorrow.”