My eyes travel up, past the column of his throat, to what I can see of his face.

In sleep, War looks angelic—or, more appropriate, angelically demonic. All his sharp features have been blunted just a bit. He almost looks … at peace. His jaw isn’t so firm, his lips seem a touch more inviting, and now that I can’t see his dagger-like eyes, he’s not nearly so intimidating.

I stare at him for a long time before I remember myself.

Stop ogling a horseman of the apocalypse, Miriam.

I also need to get out from under him, stat. The last thing I want is for him to wake up to this, too.

War’s leg is thrown over mine, and his arm is draped over my side, hugging me to him. With a little effort, I manage to slip one leg, then the other, out from under his own. When I get to his arm, I try to push it off of me—try being the operative word.

My God, his arm weighs five billion kilos, and it is not giving up its hold on me.

I twist a little with the effort. This ogre.

“Wife.”

I take a steadying breath, staring at his chest. This is really what I didn’t want.

Slowly, my eyes move up to War’s. He’s so close I can see those flecks of gold in them. There’s a hint of a smile on his lips and a deep look of satisfaction.

“This is your fault,” I say.

He raises his eyebrows. “Is it?”

The horseman doesn’t bother pointing out that we’re on his flimsy excuse of a bed. He also doesn’t bother removing his arm from where it’s draped over me. Instead, his hand slides from my back to my ribcage, settling into the dip of my waist. I can tell he’s mapping out the contours of my body. He must like what he’s discovering because he looks annoyingly pleased.

His eyes are like honey when he says, “Stay with me, Miriam.” His hand flexes against my side. “Sleep in my tent. Make your weapons. Argue with me.”

I search his face. If only he knew just how tempting his words are to a lonely girl like me. And he asks it right as I’m guiltily basking in his arms. Touch is a luxury I’ve gone too long without.

But that’s what it is—a luxury. One I cannot afford, especially with this creature.

“No,” I say. Now that War’s awake, he’s back to looking fierce. It makes it easier to turn him down. “I’ll play along and let you call me your wife, but I’m never going to choose you of my own free will.”

War’s grip tightens against my waist. He pulls me in close. “Do you want to know a truth, Miriam? Humans make proclamations like that all the time. But their oaths are brittle and break with age. I’m not afraid of yours, but you should be afraid of mine for I will tell you this: you are my wife, you will surrender to me, and you will be mine in every sense of the word before I’ve destroyed the last of this world.”

Things have gone back to the way they were.

War is in his tent, I’m in mine, and there are now five thousand people that separate us.

We haven’t spoken since the horseman’s army arrived yesterday. He was swept away into talks with his phobos riders, undoubtedly strategizing the best way to kill off the next city they’ve set their sights on.

As for the rest of us, we’re all settling into this place like it’s a new pair of shoes. In my case, a very ill-fitting pair of shoes. But I guess that’s a personal problem at this point.

My tent and my things were returned to me yesterday, right down to the tattered romance novel and coffee set I inherited from the last poor soul who lived here.

Even my wood was returned to me. My wood. I thought for sure that would disappear.

I run my hands over a branch now. I’ve been putting off making weapons, but the itch to create has returned to my fingers.

I grab the canvas bag War gave me several days ago. Unceremoniously I turn it over and dump everything out.

I sift through my tools, looking for one to shave away bark. As I do so, my hand brushes against something that doesn’t belong. Pausing, I push away the tools and uncover a familiar metal frame.

Inside it is a picture of my mother, my father, my sister, and me.

A small sound slips out.

Grabbing the photo, I lift it reverently. There’s my family. My throat works as I run my thumb over my sister Lia’s dimpled face. She and my mother are younger here than I remember them—as am I. But this was the last family photo of all four of us. In it, my mother is alive, my father is alive, my sister is alive, and I am sitting amongst them all.

Getting this back is like getting a piece of myself back. Without it, I might’ve forgotten their faces.

I don’t realize I’m crying until a drop of water hits the glass.

Why would War pack this? Was it an accident? He doesn’t seem like the sentimental type. Or was it meant to be cruel? If it was, it missed its mark.

Outside my tent, I hear the rhythmic pounding of a drum—one, two, three times. I’ve started understanding the noises well enough to distinguish execution drumbeats from celebratory or battle drumbeats. This one heralds in some sort of announcement.

I take a stuttering breath, then carefully I set my family photo aside and leave my tent. Following the growing crowd of people, I make my way to the center of camp.

The layout here is just like it was at the last campsite, so I know exactly where to go; the setting may change, but the spaces don’t.

War is already in the clearing with his riders, standing on a makeshift dais so he can be seen. My breath catches at the sight of him. I don’t know what I feel, only that I feel something when I look at him.

He retrieved the photo of my family. That couldn’t have been anything other than intentional. I want to thank him, but the distance between us and the fearsome look on his face make him seem farther away from me than ever.

Once most of the camp has arrived, War steps forward, and the crowd quiets. He gives us all a long look, then he opens his mouth and speaks in that guttural tongue of his. “Etso, peo aduno vle vegki.”

The hairs along my arms rise.

Tomorrow, we head into battle.

Chapter 11

I sit in my tent, flipping War’s dagger over and over in my hands.

Surviving isn’t good enough.

It once was, hence my rules for surviving the apocalypse. But now the game is no longer just about survival. It can’t be. It’s about remaining decent during the true end of the world.

War wants us to fight—well, to be fair, he doesn’t give a rat’s ass whether I fight. He made that plain the day he took me. But most of the camp’s occupants are supposed to go into battle and kill just as their family and friends were killed. I don’t know how many people here can stomach that, but I can’t. I can’t just stand by as innocent people get slaughtered.

I glance over at where I’ve propped up the photo of my family.

My hands still.

What if I spent my time in battle killing off this ungodly army?

Killing is a horrible, messy business. And killing War’s army is akin to a death sentence—if I get caught doing so. My idea isn’t all that wise or decent.

I also know I can’t simply sit around and watch the world burn.

My tent flaps are thrown open, and a phobos rider peers inside. “The warlord wishes to see you.”

My stomach clenches.