I take in his form. He’s been oddly kind to me today, and I have to remind myself that I’ve seen him cut down many, many people—I was almost one of them. I can’t let his concern and a few gentle touches overshadow that.

“Do you feel anything?” I call out to him. “When you kill?”

It’s time for my hourly reminder that War is a bad dude.

He pauses, his back to me. “Yes.”

I wait for him to say more. The silence stretches out.

“I feel bloodlust and excitement, and a deep satisfaction at a job well done.” The horseman says this like he’s talking about something mundane, like the weather and not the wholesale slaughter of innocents.

He turns to face me. “I am yours and you are mine, Miriam—”

I quake at those words.

“—but I am not like you, and you should never forget that.”

Chapter 9

The stars twinkle above us when War lays out our pallets. One is just a mat and a thin quilt, but the one he’s working on now is lavished with blankets.

Which one is his, and which one is mine? I sort of hate the fact that he made them so obviously unequal. If he takes the pimped out pallet, I’m going to know that on top of being depraved, the horseman is also kind of a dick. But if he gives that one to me …

I squirm a little uncomfortably at the possibility. I don’t like excessive kindness; it makes me feel like I owe someone something in return. And I really don’t want to think about what War might think I owe him.

At least he made two beds to begin with. I guess I should be glad we don’t have to share one.

After the horseman finishes, he comes over to where I sit by the fire we made a little while ago. He unfastens his armor piece by piece, setting them at his side. There’s something terribly confident and unhurried about his movements, like the world and everyone in it waits on him.

I am not like you.

I watch the horseman for a bit, trying not to focus on the fact that beneath all that armor is a wicked, wicked body.

“Your bed is the one with the blankets,” he says, unfastening his leather breastplate.

Damnit. Definitely going to feel like I owe him something now.

“Your accommodations seem a bit rough,” I say, nodding to his pallet.

War takes off the last bit of his armor. “I wouldn’t be a proper husband if I couldn’t make my wife comfortable.”

Him and this proper husband business.

I glance around. “Where are the chains you’re supposed to shackle me with?”

Pretty sure that was on the list of things a proper husband should have.

“Packed with the rest of my tent, unfortunately.” War says it so calmly that I think he may not be kidding—until a sly smile creeps up on his face.

“Next time then,” I say.

“I’ll hold you to that, wife.”

The two of us actually get along when I want us to. How troubling …

War removes his shirt, his markings glowing in the night. They give off eerie red glow.

Definitely a demon.

“Earlier,” he says, “you wanted to know why I don’t speak the languages of men when I can,” he says.

I had asked him about this when he invaded my tent several nights ago; I’m still curious about it, especially since he can speak perfect Hebrew with me.

“I speak every language that has ever existed. Even the ones that left no record. They have long faded from mortal memory, but not mine. Never mine.”

War is quiet for another moment. “What people don’t understand frightens them.”

How many times had I seen proof of that fear? Dozens, at least. And now War has weaponized that terror.

“So I speak dead languages, and I let the humans piece together from it what they will,” War finishes.

“But you don’t always speak in tongues,” I say. There have been a number of times where he spoke Hebrew or Arabic to me and his riders.

“I don’t. There are times when it serves me to be understood.”

“And when you speak in dead languages,” I say, “why is it that I can still understand you?”

War gives me a patient look. “I told you, you are my wife. You will know me and my heart, whether you want that or not.”

Unease coils low in my stomach.

Again, he says it with such certainty that I wonder …

But no. I refuse to believe I’m supposed to be with this monster.

“What do you want with me?” I ask, toeing a nearby pebble.

I sense rather than see War’s eyes draw down my face. “Isn’t it obvious?”

My gaze moves to his. “No.” It’s not.

From the few stories I’ve heard, this man has bagged himself a city’s worth of women—a big fucking city’s worth—and yet he hasn’t done more than touched my cheek and claimed that I’m his wife.

“Would you like me to tell you then?” he asks, his voice deceptively soft.

My pulse picks up. “Yes.”

“I want you to surrender.”

A beat of silence passes.

I have no clue what that actually means, but I note that chaining me to a bed and feasting on my pussy were not mentioned. Shame. Under the right circumstances (a.k.a., lots and lots of booze), I could actually get behind that one.

“Surrender?” I echo. “I already have.”

“You haven’t,” he insists.

Are you kidding me? He’s forced me to leave my life behind because it suited him. If that’s not surrender then I don’t know what is.

The more I stew on my thoughts, the more indignant I become.

“We’ve talked about how different you are and how difficult you are to understand, but we haven’t talked about me,” I finally say. “I don’t want you as a husband, and I don’t accept you, and whatever your god thinks he wants to do with me and the rest of the world, I will fight it with my every last breath.

“Oh, and I’m not surrendering anything to you, motherfucker.”

War gives a malevolent laugh, and despite myself, it raises the hairs on the back of my neck. “Fight all you want, wife. Battle is what I’m best at—and I assure you, you won’t win this one.”

The second day of riding is both more and less miserable than the first. More, because I still have to ride alongside War, and less, because Thunder has only tried to kick me once so far, and that’s an improvement from the three attempts he made yesterday.

My terrible sunburn also seems to be much better today—the skin only slightly tight and tender—and my saddle-sore thighs don’t ache nearly as much as I expected them to. I don’t know what witchcraft is responsible for this, but I’m not going to complain.

Today we leave the arid mountain range behind us, moving towards the flatter ground near the coast. The moment those rolling hills fall away, I feel bare. I’ve lived with the mountains my entire life. The wide, flat expanse of land that stretches out in front of me now is foreign and it makes me painfully homesick.

I’m really not going back. My heart squeezes a little at the thought, even as a strange sort of exhilaration takes hold. For years I had been trying to save up enough money to leave Jerusalem. And now I’ve truly left it.